


Bad Dreams

by Bluemeany



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Colonialism, M/M, Political Thriller, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Cardassia, Sequel to In Times Of War fic but you don't have to read that first, Slow Burn, Spy vibe, Thriller, Twenty Years Later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2020-11-02 06:41:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20655953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluemeany/pseuds/Bluemeany
Summary: After losing his Federation citizenship, Julian Bashir is stuck in utopia. He can’t get a job or a home. He’s not allowed to leave Earth. He has no future in a society that doesn’t want Augments to exist.Section 31 make Bashir an offer. Complete one mission for them and they’ll give him his citizenship back. He’ll be accepted into paradise. They’ll even allow him to be a doctor again.What could be simpler? All he has to do is travel to Cardassia and persuade Garak, High Castellan of the Union, to take his people into the Federation….





	1. Bad Dreams

Bashir ran. A hard, intense pain thumped in his chest. His eyes, stung blind, saw nothing. He knew nothing; remembered nothing - other than he had to get away. _Get away from the gas. Get away from…_

_From what?_ The darkness was total. An acrid smell hung thick in the air and cloyed his lungs. His throat burned raw.

Behind him, a single, distant scream echoed out.

_The soldiers!_ Terrified, he crashed forward. _Run. Get away. Run. No - wait!_ He stopped dead. _What’s that?_ A continuous hushing sound whispered into his mind. He tried to place it. _White static? No. Or something blowing in the wind? Trees, perhaps?_ The noise grew louder.

_Water._

There was a fountain ahead. He stumbled blindly toward it. He hit the surface of the pool and the water streamed cool down his skin and into his eyes. Slowly, his vision cleared. The gaunt face of an old man, his hair a shock of white stared up from the water with green, inquisitive eyes. Bashir stared back. He blinked.

_It’s me._

_When did I get so old?_ His thoughts lumbered. _I must be over ninety, maybe even a hundred! Yesterday I was… I’m sure I was younger?_ He fought against the confusion. _I can’t remember… I can’t..._

He knew where he was at least. The brutal concrete of the 20th Century Barbican Complex shone in the moonlight – pale and unmistakable. He was in London; at the pooled fountains near the Roman Wall. He was back home.

_Children._ The thought screamed sudden into his head. _You’re supposed to be protecting the children._

_What children?_ He looked around. Across the square, a teenage girl knelt at the fountain’s edge, gulping up water. Beside her, a boy of around seven and another even younger child stood motionless, in shock.

Bashir staggered toward them.

“Let me look.” He gently tilted the smallest child’s head. Her eyes were red and wept dry. “Don’t rub. The gas stings but it’ll wear off soon.” He scooped up a handful of water and began to pour it over her face.

_Three children. Two girls, one boy._ _There had been more a short time ago. Hadn’t there?_ He couldn’t… he couldn’t remember… _Why can’t I remember?_ He trembled his palm across his forehead. Something wet smeared onto his hand. _Blood_, he realised. _Half my face is covered in droplets of -_

_An explosion. There had been an explosion. And…_

He remembered.

_There had been more of them._

A terrible rasping drone began. A spluttering, screaming whistle. Moving toward them, growing ever louder.

“Quantum Shell!” he shouted. The children dropped to the floor. **WHAM!** The blast hit. Reality crashed around them with a jarring shunt and on a neighbouring street a building and all its inhabitants erupted into vapour.

The teenage girl went to run.

“No!” Bashir grabbed for her. “Stay here. Stay together.”

“We have to get out!”

“I know but - ”

She pulled against his grip. “They’re killing us!”

“The complex is surrounded by a forcefield. You’ll run straight into it.” His augmented eyes searched for options. Close by was an alleyway. It led nowhere other than a brick wall but, poorly lit, it was buried in darkness.

He picked up the smallest child. “Down here. Quickly.” They hurried along. “Hide behind the dustbins. Curl up, as small as you can. That’s it.” Bashir shepherded two of the children together. _The other one. Where was the other one?_

“Doctor…”

The teenager stood halfway down the alley, frozen in fear. He followed her gaze back to the square. Shadows of men, stretched and distorted, loomed across the fountain.

A single torch beam split the dark. “This way!” The shout echoed. “There’s water on the ground here! They came this way!”

“Quick, quick, quick.” Bashir motioned the teenager toward him. “Behind here.” She crouched down with the others. “Stay low.” He huddled around them. “Stay quiet. Don’t move.”

They waited.

Gradually, the shouts died away. No explosions or phaser-shots followed. The ever-constant hum of the London sky-traffic returned and the bells of St Paul’s rang out the hour in the distance. Everything sounded normal.

_How can everything be normal?_ His mind grappled with the incongruity. _They’re murdering us. How can life just go on? _

_Perhaps in other parts of the city, they don’t even know what’s happening? Perhaps for most people, it’s just another Thursday night? _

The horns of the pleasure boats called out to one another from the river. He felt the smallest child cling tighter to his leg. 

_How can they not know?_

Minutes passed. Had the soldiers moved on? Bashir wasn’t sure. He peered over the bins…

_Red shirts!_ He ducked down. _Shit, shit, shit_. A entire squad of them at the entrance of the alley! And moving closer. He swallowed his breath. Raising a finger to his lips, he gestured to the children to stay silent. And listen…

Listen…

Footsteps, heavy and ever louder. The mechanical whir of a tricorder; searching…

…scanning…

“You four!” barked a woman’s voice. “Behind the bins!”

Bashir froze.

“Come on out!”

_No, no, no._ He looked upward. Sheer walls towered over them on three sides. _Dead end. No way out. The children. What do I do?_ There was no time to think. _We can’t put up a fight against soldiers! What do I do? What do I –_

“I said come on out!”

“Alright,” he whispered to the children, “we’re going to surrender. But don’t make any sudden movements. Don’t give them an excuse - understand?” The smallest child blinked uncomprehendingly at him. “No, of course you don’t. Christ…”

Through a narrow gap in the bins, Bashir watched as a dozen Red Shirts armed with slung phaser rifles fanned out into the straight line of an execution squad. Their Captain’s look of piety chilled him to the core.

“Come out!” she shouted. “I won’t ask again!”

He refocused his attention on the children. “The soldiers are afraid of us. Keep your hands up, like this,” he demonstrated with a reassuring smile. “And stay behind me, okay?” Slowly, he uncurled. A dozen phaser rifles powered up. Red lasers pierced the dark, blinding his eyes. “We’re unarmed,” he called out.

“They’re Augments. Raise your guard.”

“We’re no threat to you.” He took a step into the pooled streetlight. “See? I’m an old man. There’s just me and the children.”

“Shut up,” said the Captain. “Turn around. All of you. Face the wall and get on your knees.”

The children looked at Bashir.

He didn’t move. “No.”

“Face the wall!”

“No.”

He fixed her with a gaze that could incinerate worlds. _I see you, Captain of Murderers._ She shifted uncomfortably. _Yes; I see you._ _And you’re damned. There’s no going back from this. All of you are damned._

The Captain seemed to hesitate a moment. Then, she laughed dismissively. “Fine. Have it your way Augment.” She waved her hand. “Squad: order arms!”

“We’re Federation Citizens,” said Bashir urgently.

“Ready Position!”

“We have an inalienable right to life. We have an inalienable right to liberty.” He drew the children behind him. “We cannot be imprisoned without Law.”

“Take Aim!”

“Run!” he shouted as he hurled himself forward into the Red-Shirts. The children scattered. “Run!”

“Fire!”

“Run, run - ”

***

“Run!” Bashir woke with a shout.

The present returned with consciousness. _2397\. It’s 2397._ He let out his breath. That was the year. It was now. He was safe. Still fifty-five years old, still staying with the O’Briens on Earth…

… still sleeping on a living room sofa that was far too small for him.

“It was a dream,” he whispered, determined to convince himself. “Just a dream.”

Something long and solid dug awkwardly into his side. Drowsily lifting himself up, he extracted the offending item. _A wooden sword?_ He hesitated. _Why have I got a wooden sword? _He looked down. _And why am I dressed as a medieval knight?_

The room was a mess. Darts, toy soldiers and empty bottles were strewn across the floor. Amid the devastation, dressed as a full Irish warrior, lay Miles O’Brien. The Chief snored loudly.

_We were in a Holosuite._ The memory flooded back. _And a pub._ His self-inflicted headache began. _Actually, maybe,_ now he thought about it, _several pubs_. He groaned. _Keiko is going to kill us._

Outside, an owl hooted.

Bashir stood. Remembering at just the last moment to crouch, he narrowly avoided hitting his head on an eave.

The O’Briens cottage was idyllic… from the outside. It was the kind of home you’d find on a chocolate box or gaze at in a Constable painting. Erected 1592; made of thatch and oak; nestled deep in the English countryside…

It was a house built long before the world had become a utopia. And, more to the point, before it had building regulations.

Every single floor was uneven; every doorframe lopsided. The woodworm was rife. Whilst the low ceilings may have been high enough for the malnourished humans of the 16th Century, living here the modern day 6ft 1 Bashir found it safer to adopt a perpetual stoop.

He stumbled toward the coffee table. On top of it was the reason he’d gotten drunk in the first place; a letter from the Federation High Commission, confirming (yet again) the loss of his citizenship and rejecting his latest appeal.

As he re-read it, his anger grew.

The decision wasn’t because he was ‘a genetically altered person’. The Commission took great pains and three paragraphs to make that clear. Earth society was a tolerant society. It was enlightened. There was no discrimination.

Jules Bashir had been a Federation citizen. The commission accepted that. He’d been born in London, Earth; they’d seen the birth certificate. Furthermore, the letter went on, the boy had remained a citizen until his death aged seven.

Julian Bashir however was a different case entirely. A distinct individual by his own admission, he had come into being outside of Federation territory on Adegion Prime. He simply did not qualify for citizenship.

Bashir ground his jaw. It was bullshit, obviously.

But it was also, his state appointed lawyer never seem to tire of reminding him, completely legal. He had no right to live on Earth, or anywhere else in the Federation for that matter. He had no right to be here.

The Commission were ‘sympathetic’ however. They had considered his service record. They would ‘allow’ him, for the moment, to remain.

Naturally, the letter concluded, he would wish to accept this ruling and issue a public statement expressing how grateful he was…

_Grateful. They expect me to be grateful._

He scrunched the letter into a ball and threw it, hard as he could, into the wall.

_If I haven’t got citizenship papers, I can’t work. And if I can’t work, then I can’t make social credit contributions. I can’t qualify for food or water or for housing. And they_ _bloody know that! _

Agitated, he paced the floor. 

_I can’t travel off world. I can’t be a doctor. I can’t help anyone. They won’t even let me access the fucking sub-ether! I’m trapped and I’m stagnant and I think; I think I’m going to go mad!_

Collapsing back on the sofa, he sat, head in his hands.

He wanted his Federation citizenship back. He wanted his independence. He needed to move forward. He needed to do something with his life.

His father’s voice slithered into his mind. _You should be Chief of Medicine somewhere by now. You should have won a Carrington Award. You’re lazy Jules, you always were. There’s no excuse. All those gifts, all those talents. The opportunities we gave you. __If you really wanted to succeed, you’d find a way…_

Bending down, he reached under the sofa and found the handle of a leather suitcase. Pulling the case out, he jiggled the lock. The tripartite mechanism opened with an electronic trill.

Unmarked, gold pressed Latinum. It glistened in the light. His augmented mind did an automatic, super-fast count. _8342 bars. _Not enough for a black-market Federation passport yet. Not by a long way. But enough to purchase Ferengi citizenship though. Legally too, under his own name.

_All I’d have to do is go to their Embassy. Fill in a few forms and bribe a few civil servants. I could leave. Say goodbye to the Earth for good. Go travelling. Go back to Cardassia. Back to Garak._

_Only…_

_Miles._ Bashir glanced at his sleeping friend on the floor. They’d been having fun together. Drinking in the pub; playing in the Holosuite; crusading until the early hours of the morning. It had been like the old days. And…

… there were the photos. In the bedrooms, the kitchen, the hallway, even the bathroom. Across every damn inch of the cottage. Wherever he looked, there they were! Photos of Molly and Yoshi. And Keiko’s sisters and Miles’s brothers. Plus the great-uncles and the dotty aunts. Not to mention an entire army of red-headed nieces and nephews! A host of faces smiled at him from every wall.

The part of him that was still Jules ached to stay. He was with the kind of family he’d always wanted. He wasn’t lonely.

Here, it was easy to pretend he belonged in paradise. Here, he could have been happy…

… if not for the bad dreams.

_Progress isn’t linear._ Bashir understood that now. He’d travelled to the void of White Space, found Sisko and the Prophets. _Humanity could move forward. Or, it could sink back. Right back to where we started. __Back into the abyss._

The Prophets had fragmented his existence across time. In a single moment, he’d seen everything. His entire life, all at once - ghosts from the past; visions of the future.

_What if the magic hasn’t completely gone away?_ The idea haunted him. _What if it still breathes within me? What if…_

_What if it isn’t just a dream?_

Reaching into his pocket, he took out Sisko’s combadge. A twinge of guilt ran through him. He had meant to give it to Jake; really – he had. And he’d had every opportunity. Jake was only based in South Bank, working as a journalist: even if he took one of the old bullet trains, Bashir could travel there in less than an hour. Since his return to Earth the two men had met for lunch together several times.

But it was the only piece of his captain the doctor had left; and he just couldn’t bring himself to let it go.

He held the combadge in the palm of his hand. The metal façade had begun to rust and its gold edging had nearly completely flaked away.

“Is it a dream? Or is it real? Is it the future?”

He waited.

“Captain, please. I need to know. When I was falling in time, I-I…I saw...” He swallowed. “Is the dream how it ends? Is it a vision? Answer me; please. I need guidance. I…”

Bashir broke off.

He listened to the silence; to the absence of a man who’d been the closest thing to a father he’d ever known. _I’m alone_, he realised. _Sisko, wherever and whenever he is, can’t help me anymore._

With a grunt and a snort, O’Brien woke. Bashir hastily returned the combadge to his pocket. “Oh no,” groaned the Chief. “Not another day.” He shut his eyes again. “Not another day in England.”

“You’ve got a hangover. Don’t get up too quickl - ”

“Christ, my head!”

“Never mind...”

“Oof! My bloody back! You know what that is? Twenty years crawling about in Jeffries Tubes, that’s what. Chronic muscle pain - the damp in this place only makes it worse.”

He stretched awkwardly.

“Why did Keiko have to move us here?” he grumbled on. “Head of Kew Gardens, I understand. It’s a prestigious job; it’s brilliant for her career. And no, I don’t have to live anywhere in particular now I’m retired. And yes, I did drag her to some shitholes early on in our marriage. But, but England! Full of English people!”

“Like me.”

“Like you! Exactly!” He stopped, glancing down at the suitcase of Latinum at Bashir’s feet. O’Brien’s manner softened. “You’re safe here Julian. I’ve told you before. We’re having a good time aren’t we? And you can stay as long as you need; it’s no trouble. Keiko and I don’t mind.”

“I know.” Bashir looked at the ground. “I just…”

“You had the dream again?”

He nodded.

“It’s just a dream,” said O’Brien, not unkindly. “Your fears playing out in your subconscious. Massacres; round-up’s of children – those things are a part of history. We’ve moved beyond that.”

“But what if something changes?”

“Julian…”

“What if there’s a catastrophe; or another war? What if there’s another Khan? If people are frightened enough, or desperate enough - ”

“It’s a dream. That’s all. It can’t happen here! This isn’t Cardassia, you know! This is Earth.”

“I hope you’re right Miles.”

“’Course I’m right.” O’Brien stood. “Come on,” he said, “buck up. We’ll sing your favourite. _And did those feet in ancient times…_” A glass of single malt scotch appeared in the doctor’s eye line. “_Walk upon England’s Mount -_.” The Chief stopped. “Come on Julian, I sound like a right wanker singing this by myself. _Walk upon England’s…_ ”

Bashir smiled at his friend. Downing the whisky in a single gulp, he joined in. “_Mountain’s green? And was the holy lamb of God, On England’s pleasant pastures -_ ”

Outside, glass shattered. Both men started.

A moment passed.

“What was that?” whispered O’Brien.

Bashir reached for his wooden sword. “The greenhouse?”

“Must be.”

They moved quickly to the window. The garden was dark. Long, moonlit shadows fell here and there… across the lawn, the treehouse, Keiko’s arboretum, the barn….

“There!” Bashir pointed.

“Where?”

“Someone moving! At the barn door. They’re breaking in! There! Now - look!”

O’Brien squinted into the dark. “I can’t see anything. But,” he conceded, “your eyes are better than mine.” He picked up his plastic battle-axe. “Come on. Grab your shield too.”

“Right.”

Heading out the latched door, they advanced toward the barn.

Inside was a jungle - albeit a painstakingly collected and neatly catalogued one. Keiko’s bizarre alien plants sat on long trough-like benches: some heated under ultra-violet lamps; others suspended in liquid argon pools. Bashir peered through the foliage. At the far end of the barn sat a huge sealed bell-jar of Federation SuperWheat. Beside it was a figure – cloaked in muddy brown and bent over something.

He glanced to his left. O’Brien silently gave the signal: forward. With a nod, he raised his shield. The two men crept nearer… nearer. They were within a few meters now; but the intruder showed no sign of having registered them.

_He must have heard us! Anyone would have by now!_ Bashir hesitated. _Unless... _He looked down to the ground. _Any human would have heard us._

From under the cloak, ran a long, grey reptilian tail…

**THWACK!** O’Brien bashed the intruder on the head. “Got him!” he cried victoriously. The intruder staggered upright. “It’s a Cardassian! A bloody Cardassian!”

"Giel!" shouted Bashir in surprise.

“Owwwwww,” moaned Giel in agony.

“You know him?”

The doctor nodded. “Friend of mine from Lakat.” He grabbed the young man with professional efficiency. “Keep still Giel. Stop, no-ach – no! Stop making a fuss. I’m only trying to check your head for God’s sake.”

“Owwwwww…”

“What were you thinking sneaking about like that? You’re lucky the Chief here didn’t kill you!” He parted the Cardassian’s hair and black under-feathers. Thick blood gushed up from between his temporal scales. “Hell. Okay - sit, sit, sit.”

Giel swayed.

“Oh no,” said O’Brien. “He can’t pass out. Not here. We’ll have Immigration on to us. Do something Julian!”

“You hit him with an axe. I’m trying.”

“Doctor,” garbled Giel breathlessly, “I need help, I need guidance. Cardassia is dying and the Obsidian Order are after me and you said if I ever needed help I should go see Garak but he wouldn’t help and now I’m hungry and I’m homeless and I’ve run out of James Bonds to read and…"

His reptilian eyes flickered.

“…and…”

Bashir rushed to hold the boy as his knees gave way.

“.. and someone hit me… with an axe!” said Giel. With an indignant wail and a Cardassian huff, he fell totally and immovably unconscious.


	2. Crossover

A good doctor, in want of a bio bed, is always prepared to improvise. In the course of his career, Bashir had treated patients strewn over pillows; suspended in Zero-G gurneys; and (when Morn had refused point blank to leave Quarks) laid across a bar during happy hour. But on a full scale-model of the Alamo? Squeezed inside O’Brien’s DIY treehouse? At 3:00am in the morning? That was unorthodox even by his standards.

Giel lay flat on top of The Mission, neck resting on the miniature chapel. Bashir worked a dermal regenerator over the Cardassian’s head. _Right. I’ve cleaned the wound, fused the skull. All I’ve got to do now is heal the cranial tissue and -_

His patient fidgeted. The regenerator stopped as the safety kicked in.

_Again._ _Fucking hell._

Bashir sighed. “Keep still Giel. I’m nearly done.” He reactivated the device and ran it over the young man’s head for a few more seconds. “There,” he announced. “Good as new.”

“Ow!”

“What is it? Has the wound not stitched properly?”

Giel dug underneath his back. “No, I lent on a… on a...”

“On a Texan revolutionary.” Bashir took the miniature figurine from his claws. “Not Travis or Crocket; but better luck next time. Sit up.”

Giel did. His wide, chameleonic eyes swivelled about. “Wow,” he enthused. “Earth. Wow. This is great. And a treehouse! It’s so rustic! So quaint! It’s like… what’s that book you lent me? It’s like The Swiss Family Robinson! Or, or Peter Pan!” He made to stand. “Can we go outside?”

“No,” said Bashir. He flicked the medi-scanner open.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking for concussion.” The medi-scanner warbled in protest as the patient craned his neck to look at the bookshelves behind him. “For the last time Giel, these instruments are sensitive. You have to keep still.”

“All they’ve got are engineering manuals,” complained Giel. “And gardening books. Where are the novels?” He moved again.

**Beep, beep, beep.** Failed scan.

“Oh,” said Giel. “Sorry. Was that me?”

_I am not going to get annoyed. _The doctor took a deep breath. He started over. _I am not going to get annoyed. I am not going to get annoyed…_

The boy was A Curse Sent By The Prophets. Bashir felt sure of it. Literally - a curse. He’d been a pain at that age, so now, from somewhere far beyond space-time, Benjamin Sisko was gleefully enacting his own brand of perverse, karmic revenge.

There was no other explanation. It was too perfect a coincidence. Giel had wild fantasies of adventure. He had ‘bright ideas’. He was twenty six years old, hopelessly naïve, brimming with eagerness and obsessed with James Bond...

Yes, Giel's attachment to him was definitely Sisko’s doing. He'd realised it years ago, back on Cardassia; when the boy had knocked on his door at four in the morning and asked if...totally hypothetically of course...it was possible to blackout most of central Lakat by running six holo-programmes at once. As he’d stood there in the pitch dark and his pyjamas, Bashir could have sworn he heard his old Captain laughing.

The medi-scanner trilled.

_All clear._ _No concussion._ He gave the bedraggled Giel the once-over. Small red feathers had begun to sprout along the boy’s neck ridges. _He’s a lot thinner than the last time I saw him. Unkempt too. He obviously hasn’t shaved in weeks…_

Cardassians were usually so meticulous in their appearance and their manners._ He must have been through hell to let himself look like this! _Giel’s shirt, cloak and rucksack were caked in a heavy, dark brown sludge.

“Uridium Ore,” said Bashir. He didn’t need a tricorder to identify it. Once, long ago and through the looking glass, he’d been a runaway slave covered in the wretched stuff. Thirty years later and he still remembered how it burnt at the skin; how the dust choked in your throat and stuck in your lungs; how desperate he’d felt. He’d killed a man to survive; to escape that nightmare of a universe and get home. 

Giel scratched at his scales. “It itches.”

“I know,” said Bashir softly. “I’ll give you an anti-histamine.”

The trapdoor opened. With a groan, O’Brien clambered up through the floor - the text-book illustration of a hangover. In his hand was a plate of Wednesday night’s leftovers; crab, spinach and rice wrapped into neat sushi rolls.

“This was all I could find in the fridge.” O’Brien paused. “Can Cardassians eat shellfish?”

Bashir didn’t know. “Yes,” he said anyway, “it’s fine. Did you tell Keiko about our unexpected guest?”

“Ah, why worry her?” O’Brien squeezed his way around the Alamo. “Here,” he grunted.

“Thanks Chief,” said Giel, taking the plate. “I really appreciate this. We’re going to be good friends, I know we are.”

“Hm.”

Giel began to wolf down the food. _He’s starving_, realised Bashir. _I never should have left._ Guilt built inside him. _He has no family; no one to show him how to survive in the universe. _

_Other than me._

_Yes, he’s a grown man now but only just. Twenty six is no age at all._ _He’s still so naïve. He still has so much to learn… _

_I shouldn’t have left. _Bashir moved to the other side of the treehouse and pretended to focus on packing his medkit away.

O’Brien followed. “So?” he whispered.

“So?”

“What did you find out? How the hell did he get here? How did he even get out of the Cardassian system?”

“We hadn’t actually gotten on to that yet...”

“Get on to it Julian! Quickly.”

“Crab,” called out Giel between mouthfuls. The two men turned and looked at him. A piece of spinach trailed from his lips. “S’ good.”

“Right you are there,” said O’Brien, smiling pleasantly. Inching closer to Bashir, he lowered his voice again. “He shouldn’t be here; he’s obviously illegal.”

“Like me you mean?”

“I didn’t - .” O’Brien stopped. “That isn’t the same,” he continued evenly after a moment. “Look, the Cardassian border is closed, right? Damn great missile field on their side; most of Starfleet on ours. No ships cross over from one space to another. How did he manage to get through the blockade?”

“I did a Probability Leap.”

“You did what?” said Bashir, trying to stay as calm and Sisko-like as possible.

“A Probability Leap.” Swallowing the last piece of sushi, Giel launched enthusiastically into an explanation. “It’s a form of quasi-statistical transportation which uses chance to beam vast distances without a fixed lock on the end destin- ”

“Giel.” 

The young man stopped. “Yes Doctor?”

“The Chief and I know what a probability leap is; thank you.”

“Oh right, yes.” He grinned sheepishly. “Anyway, so I bought a ticket on the Lunar Orbital, set the transporter range for any ships on the other side of the border; waited until none of the Stewardesses were looking and then… WHOOSH! Leapt across! Worked a treat; I ended up in the hold of a Bajoran Ore Freighter.”

O’Brien frowned. “You leapt between two moving ships?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve never heard of that being done before. Not when the target was unknown. How did you allow for the speed of the Freighter?”

“With this,” said Giel proudly, pushing up his sleeve. The metallic band of a transporter scrambler (outlawed throughout The Four Quadrants) hung around his wrist. Five of its six lights blinked red.

Bashir spluttered. “You, you…. you SCRAMBLE JUMPED!”

Giel rolled his eyes.

“On top of a PROBABILITY LEAP! Across AN ENTIRE SECTOR!” He waved his arms about in disbelief. _The boy was an idiot!_ _The Probability Leap was bad enough; but, but… a scramble jump! _“A SCRAMBLE JUMP!” he shouted again. “What the hell were you thinking!? You could have rematerialized in the vacuum of space!”

“But I didn’t though.”

“Give me that.” Bashir strode forward. He grabbed Giel’s wrist and unfastened the bracelet. “These things are dangerous, do you hear me? The chances of them working properly are 20 to 1. Why in god’s name would you take such a risk?”

Giel looked at the floor. “I stole something.”

“You stole something?”

He nodded.

“What?”

“A report. From the Ministry of Science. Mister Garak got me a job there working as a censor in the Fact Department. Dead boring it was too; tippexing everything out all day...”

“Garak?” interrupted Bashir. It was the first time he’d said his lover’s name aloud in two years.

“Yes. That’s what you said to me Doctor. Before you left for Earth. You made me repeat it back to you. Remember?” Giel coughed. “If I ever need help,” he recounted, “I am to go find Garak and tell him I want a new suit. Well, that’s what I did and he gave me a job.” The boy paused. “He didn’t give me a suit though?”

“This report,” said Bashir; “why did you take it? What was it about?”

Giel reached for the Cardassian PADD in the clear pocket of his rucksack. “Here,” he said, “read for yourself.”

Bashir took the gold, irregularly-shaped brick of a device. As he ran his thumb along the jagged edge, its oval screen came to life with a strange, satisfying orange hum. He smiled. He _liked _Cardassian’s PADDs.

Cardassian PADDs never did automatic updates. They didn’t demand you upgrade to the latest version of the software. Or purge your library archive for ‘morally dubious pre-22nd Century novels’ and ‘literature potentially harmful to minors’.

And (unlike the flimsy pieces of crap the Federation distributed) Cardassian PADDs were built to last. On the rare occasion one did break, you could fix it yourself. They weren’t tamper resistant. They even came in colours other than Starship Grey.

Strange, moving block-like letters appeared on the screen. Bashir rubbed his eyes. It had been several years since he’d read formal Cardassi and it took a moment for his mind to re-adjust.

The report was from the Botanical Division of the Cardassian Ministry; that much was clear. Their Orchid-like emblem sat at the top of the document, along with the words: OFFICIAL SECRET. DO NOT DISCLOSE UNDER PAIN OF DEATH.

Bashir read on.

His mouth opened.

“It’s the plant-life,” he summarised aloud for O’Brien. “Something’s wrong with it. All of it, across the whole of Cardassia. Planetary bio-mass is predicted to decline 75% in the next five years.”

“75%?” said O’Brien. “Are you sure you’ve got that translation right?”

“Christ! And half the species in the Andak Basin have already gone extinct! That’s their main agricultural region. This is catastrophic!”

An Eliptograph appeared on the screen. It’s many lines and multiple plot-points danced up and down in a dizzying display of information.

“What’s that?” asked O’Brien. “Some sort of Cardassian graph?”

Bashir nodded. “Most of what it shows is lies though. You have to view it a certain way to see the truth.”

He swiped the false z axis away and rotated the PADD to a 42 degree angle.

“This is data from last spring’s harvest. Ikri, Cantseed, Yamok Beans… not a single crop produced more than a 40% yield. Not even the SuperWheat we gave them after the war…”

He looked at his friend.

“Miles, if this goes on - they’re going to starve.”

“Everything looked normal in the city,” said Giel. “But, just before I left, the Ministry told my department to cut all comm channels to the Northern Continent.”

“Why, Giel?”

“I’m not sure. But I heard rumours of mass famine. I think… I think people in the North were dying; and they kept calling the mainland, begging for food and for help.”

O’Brien nodded at the report. “Do the Cardassian scientists know what’s causing it?”

“No,” said Bashir. “The climate appears normal. Quantum fallout levels are low. There’s no obvious signs of disease. There’s no reason for their world to be dying.” He swiped to the conclusion. “Their best guess is it’s a natural phenomenon; part of the normal ecological cycle of the planet.”

“Natural? Is that possible?”

Bashir considered the idea. “The Cardassian bio-system has gone through changes before. Several times in fact. This could be a new epoch; another shift like the one a thousand years ago which brought Hebitian society to an end.”

He paused.

_But if that’s true, they’re going to need galactic aid. They’re going to need food shipments and replicator rations for at least the next half century just to survive._

He swallowed. His lover’s world had also been his, once, for a while. Not home exactly (never that), but… a part of him nonetheless. _For all that beauty, all that complexity to vanish within a generation was… unimaginable..._

With a loud clatter, Giel tipped the contents of his rucksack out on the treehouse floor. “I only bought the essentials,” he said, conducting an inventory. “Towel, toothbrush, sleeping bag…”

“A dozen books,” noted O’Brien. “Half of these are James Bonds!”

“As I said – the essentials.” Giel pushed several engineering manuals off one of the shelves. In the newly created free space, went the books. The young man began to arrange them lovingly into alphabetical order.

“Giel,” said Bashir, “did you show this report to Garak?”

“I tried to. I tried to get him to do something; to get him to use his influence and make it public. But he wouldn’t listen. He said he was retired.”

“Retired?”

“Yes. He said I was ‘an infuriating pest with an overactive imagination’! He said I should go away!”

“He didn’t mean to Earth,” said O’Brien blankly.

Giel’s head lowered. “I had no choice. I had to leave. The Obsidian Order quickly realised I’d taken the report. By the time I returned to my lodgings, they were already there, searching the place.” He hugged his tail around himself. “I can’t go back,” he whispered. “I can’t ever go home.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t -”

The Cardassian cleared his throat. “Oh, it’s quite alright Chief. Besides,” he said brightening again, “my life is going to be much better here in the Federation. There’s no poverty, no war, no hunger. Everyone’s equal. Everyone’s tolerant. I can read whatever I want.” He paused. “That’s true, isn’t it Doctor?”

“Hm?”

“You said. You told me. I can own any book I want. No one will burn it and I won’t be arrested?”

“What?” said Bashir distractedly. “Oh, um yes. Yes. That part’s true.”

Giel’s worry evaporated. “Everything’s alright then,” he said and unrolled his sleeping bag. “I’ve been thinking about coming here for a while actually… practicing my Standard. I don’t need the universal translator anymore. Listen…”

“Giel-”

“Good _Mawnnning_,” he enunciated in plummy RP. “How _do_ you _dooo_? What splendid weather we are having for the time of _yee-ar_.”

O’Brien moved closer to Bashir. “Does he think he can stay?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“Just like that? Just by getting here?”

“He thinks he’s in utopia. He thinks the Federation is near perfect.”

“Why?”

“Because I told him it was,” said Bashir as Giel continued to babble on. “When we used to meet for lunch in Lakat. Infinite diversity in infinite combinations and all that. The Order was filling his head with ideological crap. I thought it would be good for him. I thought it would give him a different way to see the universe.”

“Would you please _paaarsss_ the butter knife? I will have a Martini – shaken, not stirred. _Good Mawnnning_.”

“Giel.”

“Yes Doctor?” he said, switching back to Cardassi. 

“You see the thing is,” began Bashir, as gently as he could, “you’re not a Federation Citizen.”

“That’s okay,” said Giel cheerfully. “I don’t want to be.” Making a pillow out of his towel, he prepared to bed down for the night.

O’Brien moved toward him. “Look, don’t get your hopes up. Don’t get settled. You can’t stay here.”

“I’m fine Chief. Sure, a bed and being inside the house would be nice but I don’t mind the treehouse. Yes, it’s a bit drafty. And it could do with a clean. And a lick of paint but - ”

“No, I mean you can’t stay here. You can’t stay on Earth.”

“Oh,” said Giel. “Why?”

“You’re a Cardassian.”

His ridges creased in confusion. “Why would that matter? Ah!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Right! I see!” He smiled amiably at O’Brien. “You don’t understand.”

“Don’t I?”

“It’s okay,” said Giel, clearly oblivious to the tension in O’Brien’s voice. “I didn’t either when Doctor Bashir first explained it to me. But you see,” he said, slowing his speech, “the Federation isn’t like Cardassia. It’s what’s called ‘A Free Society’. It welcomes diversity. All kinds of species can live wherever they want.”

“I know they can live wherever they want!” said O’Brien.

“Right!”

“But that doesn’t apply to you.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No!”

“Oh.” He paused. “Why?”

“You’re a Cardassian!”

Giel blinked in polite, reptilian bewilderment. “You keep bringing that up and I don’t see how it’s relevant.”

“Look,” exhaled O’Brien, struggling on, “you crossed the border illegally; understand? If the authorities find you, they’ll deport you. Cardassia isn’t in the Federation. You need permission to be here, you need papers.”

“Oh,” said Giel. “Why?”

“We can’t let anybody and everybody in. We have to have borders.”

“Oh. Why?”

“Because… because…” O’Brien glanced at Bashir for help. None came. “Because - well, I don’t know! Because that’s just how things work, that’s why!”

“Doesn’t seem very utopian to me,” muttered Giel. “You’re a post-scarcity economy. All your people are fed; your worlds are prosperous. You live in paradise. Why would you have borders? Why wouldn’t you let everybody in? You could easily do it with a bit of organisation; if you wanted to.”

“Julian \- he is beginning to _annoy_ me.”

“Let’s think this through,” said Bashir. “Giel is stateless; he’s vulnerable. Okay; we need to get him legal protection and fast.” He paused. “We need to get him a passport; any sort of passport…”

O’Brien shook his head sadly. “Julian…”

“Wait - hear me out.”

“That Latinum is for you. It’s for your passport.”

“If he’s got Ferengi citizenship, he can apply for a tourist visa. Besides, I’m safe here, at least for the time being; you said so yourself. I can always get more currency later.”

“From where?”

“Something will turn up.”

“It might not. You’re fifty-five. One day, soon, you’re going to be old. You have to think about the future; take care of yourself first every once in a while.”

“But Giel needs help now.”

“Alright,” said O’Brien after a moment, “there’s no point arguing with you. Not when you’re like this. There never was… But just look at him, Julian. The Ferengi Embassy is in the middle of the city; how are we going to get there without being spotted?”

“Transporter beam?” suggested Bashir.

“Put a Cardassian pattern through the network? It’d light up every alarm in Europe.”

“Keiko’s hover car?”

“I am not driving in Central London.”

“No,” said Bashir. “Fair enough. Nor am I.” He paused. “Taxi?”

“No cabbie is going to stop for him!”

Bashir bit his lip. He considered the options. “Alright,” he said at last. “We’ll take the Underground.”

“The Underground!” cried O’Brien.

“The Underground!” cried Giel, leaping to his feet in excitement.

“Julian; he is six ft four. He is covered in scales. He is a Cardassian. Someone is going to notice!”

“We’ll say he’s Denobulan.”

“Denobulan!” stammered O’Brien. “Denobulan! He doesn’t look anything like a frigging Denobulan! The forehead is all wrong.”

“No one pays the blindest bit of notice to anyone else in London anyway. Not unless you’re holding up the traffic. All he needs are the right clothes to help him blend in.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” said Bashir. “But we’ll think of something. We’ll improvise…”


	3. A Cardassian in London

Bashir sat onboard the 8.01 train to Waterloo Station and watched the other passengers. He was nervous_. One person. That’s all it would take to get us arrested. One person noticing Giel and seeing through his disguise..._

He looked around. Most of the commuters remained absorbed in their PADDs; seashell earbuds locked in place to block out the world around them. A few others stared ahead, blissed out in a virtual fantasy via the neural sub-ether.

A quote wormed its way into Bashir’s mind; one from a very old book. _Reality, however utopian, is something from which people feel the need of taking pretty frequent holidays…_

_Thank God_, he thought. _Else we’d never get away with this. _

Camouflaging a Cardassian hadn’t proved easy. He and O’Brien had done the best they could; tried to cobble together a disguise from what they could find in the cottage.

Giel sat in between the two men wearing a bowler hat; Yoshi’s round sunglasses; and a long, bright yellow poncho with the words ‘Disneyland Mars - The Happiest Place In The Galaxy!’ emblazoned on the back.

He looked ridiculous.

He did not however, look so obviously Cardassian. The outfit covered most of his grey skin. The poncho hid his tail. Outside the window, London whizzed by.

O’Brien leant across to Bashir’s ear. “This is a terrible plan,” he whispered.

“No one has reacted to Giel yet,” he said, smile fixed in place. “So far so good.”

“So far. But there’s the station to go. And the ticket barriers. And the Underground. And you’re carrying a suitcase packed full of unmarked Latinum. What if we get stopped? What if someone reports him?”

“There it is!” Giel’s cry filled the hushed carriage. “There’s the old MI5 building!” Clambering up onto his seat, he pointed excitedly out of the window. “Doctor, look! The green and white building on the other side of the river!”

“_Shush.._.”

“That’s where the Elizabethan spies used to work! Just like James Bond! Only real life!”

“Yes, I know,” said Bashir. “Sit properly; you’re attracting attention.”

Giel practically bounced back onto his seat. “This is great,” he said, grin broad. “This is London. Proper ancient civilisation! An antique land.”

“Antique?” said O’Brien.

“This is what I wanted; the farthest reaches of the galaxy! This is where the adventure is!”

“Good morning,” chimed the auto-driver in an electronic voice. “The time is 8.16 am, Standard Earth Time. We will shortly be arriving at London Waterloo, our final destination. End of the line. All change please. All change.”

Bashir stood. “Come on,” he said.

“Make sure you have all your personal belongings with you,” said the auto-driver as the three men moved to the doors. “And remember: if you see something that doesn’t look right, comm station security on SECURITY and we’ll sort it. See it. Say it. Sorted.”

The train shuddered to a stop. With a hum, the doors swished open.

_Waterloo Station._ Bashir knew it from childhood. Jules had loved the trains; loved standing, just like this, totally still on the platform and daring himself to look down… _Urgh._ His stomach fell. Almost all the station was made out of glass: the walls, the walkways, the turbolifts – even the floor. The effect was dizzying; like standing in a goldfish bowl balanced on the edge of a precipice.

He could see through the platform, through the lower levels; all the way down to the tiny specks of people waiting in the tunnels of the vacuum Underground far below.

“Woah!” said Giel. “Awesome!”

Bashir looked up quickly. _Focus on the roof. Focus on the roof. Focus on the –_

An arched, glass ceiling covered the concourse. Held up by two vast pillars of stone, it gave a clear view of the starships and the flying stages of the city circling above. Underneath the ceiling, floated the hoverbots: huge, globule lanterns that marshalled the rush hour and guided commuters to their connecting shuttles, vac-tubes and beaming pads.

Life was easy here. It was instant. The replicator stalls offered any food you desired. The departure boards showed every single train was on time. The hundreds of people using the station moved serenely through and encountered no inconveniences; no frustrations and no difficulties whatsoever. In the centre of it all, the Federation flag fluttered in a light, synthetic breeze.

_Paradise,_ thought Bashir and partly believed it. 

A hoverbot zeroed in on the three men. “Hi there!” it said brightly. “Can I help?”

O’Brien groaned.

“No thank you,” said Bashir.

“Do you know where you’re going?” asked the hoverbot.

“Yes.”

It paused. Its circuits clicked. “I noticed you’re standing still.”

“So we are.”

“You have been for at least ten seconds now.”

“That long?”

"All citizens must keep moving forward,” it lilted cheerily, “so as not to block the flow of traffic.”

“Look, said O’Brien, “we’ll move when we’re good and ready.”

“Do you need directions? I can help with that!”

“Go away.”

The hoverbot didn’t. “Here’s something tourists like you find useful, ”it said and projected a meter-tall holoimage of the vacuum Underground into the air.

“Awesome!” Giel moved forward. He traced a reptilian claw along the shimmering crisscross of coloured lines from Waterloo all the way up to Kings Cross Station.

“No, that’s the wrong way,” said Bashir.

“What?”

“The Ferengi Embassy is in Marylebone. Here,” he pointed. “We need to take the Bakerloo Line. The brown one, see?”

“Oh,” said Giel. “Yes. We’re going to Marylebone. To the Embassy. We need to follow the brown line: I understand now.”

“That’s right!” said the hoverbot. “Join this line of people here.” It nudged the three men into the procession of commuters, herding them along.. “Go through the turnstile to get to the Underground,” it insisted. “And have a nice day!” 

They pushed through the turnstile. O’Brien first; Bashir second and then -

CLUNK. 

“Ah,” said Giel. He pulled forward. CLUNK. “I appear to be stuck.” CLUNK. CLUNK. WHIRRRRR. The turnstile’s gears groaned in effort. CLUNK. CLUNK. “Doctor, I think… I think perhaps it’s my tail...”

Bashir crouched to look. _Damn. _The tail was stuck; part twisted around the metal arms of the turnstile and meshed in the cogged mechanism. Behind them, an impatient queue of commuters began to form.

“What’s the diagnosis?” said Giel, his voice betraying worry.

“Hold still. I’ll try and free you.”

“You’ll _try_?”

Sliding underneath the Cardassian, Bashir stretched awkwardly to reach the tangle. _How is this possible? _Blood rushed to his head. _How the fuck has he managed to get one tail knotted in three places_? 

“Come on mate!” shouted a voice.

“Get a move on!” yelled another.

The queue behind Giel had bottlenecked into a crowd now and it was not sympathetic.

“We’ve all got jobs to go to you know!”

“What’s happening?”

“Bloody alien, isn’t it? Holding everyone up.”

O’Brien’s upturned face appeared in Bashir’s eye line. “Julian,” he hissed, “hurry up. We are attracting a lot of attention.”

“Yes, thank you Chief. I am aware of that.”

“Ach- no,” said O’Brien, inspecting his work. “What are you doing? Unloop the tail clockwise. No, the other clockwise! Now - lift up the automatic barrier release. Julian, the automatic barrier release! The metal lever! That one there!”

“How the hell am I supposed to know-”

“No! Don’t yank it like that, you eejit! You’ll make the knot tighter! Look…” breathed O’Brien, “… alright, just… just come out of there. Come on. Get out of the way.”

Bashir clambered back to his feet.

“I don’t know,” grumbled O’Brien as he disappeared underneath Giel, “if you want a job doing properly, send an engineer.”

“STATION ATTENDANT TO THE TICKET BARRIER!” screamed the tannoy system. “REPEAT: STATION ATTENDANT TO THE TICKET BARRIER!! WE HAVE A CUSTOMER INCIDENT!!!”

Giel’s face turned a deep shade of blue. “How embarrassing,” he said. Inhaling, he turned to address the crowd.

“Don’t,” said Bashir.

“Good _Mawning!”_

“Please don’t speak Standard.”

“What splendid _weathaar_ we are having,” he continued on regardless. “I say; I really am _frightfully _sorry about all this palaver!”

“Giel, I’m begging you - ”

“What’s the hold up here?” said a woman’s voice from behind them. Bashir turned and found himself face to face with a middle-aged woman in uniform. _The station attendant. Damn._ Her lips pressed together in a stern expression.

Giel extended a polite reptilian claw. “How _do_ you _dooo_?”

“You’re a Cardassian!” she exclaimed.

“No!” Bashir dragged Giel’s hand back underneath the poncho. He gave the station attendant his best boyish smile. “No, Giel here is a Denobulan. Aren’t you Giel?”

“Pull the other one mate!” shouted a voice. “That’s a Cardassian!”

The rest of the crowd murmured in agreement.

Bashir ignored everyone but the station attendant. “I see you’ve noticed the facial ridges. What that is,” he said authoritatively “is an allergic reaction to the sunlight…”

“Reaction to the sunlight,” echoed Giel.

“… a lot of Denobulans have the condition.”

“Got the fecker!” With a hard yank, O’Brien extracted Giel’s tail from the turnstile.

Bashir caught the Cardassian as he stumbled forward and began to usher him away across the concourse.

“Hey! Wait a minute!” shouted the attendant.

“Late, can’t stop, train to catch. Sorry!”

O’Brien hurried behind them. “I was,” he puffed between breaths as he caught Bashir up. “I was going to go to The Ostrich.”

“What?”

“The Ostrich. Have a few beers, play some darts. Maybe go back home in the afternoon, potter about in the shed. That was my plan, yesterday. Before he arrived. Before _you_ got _me_ dragged into this.”

“Well these things happen Chief. Giel - don’t dawdle, come on.”

“No they don’t,” said O’Brien. “Not to other people. Other people don’t wake up one morning to find they have to disguise an illegal Cardassian and take him halfway across Lon -.”

O’Brien broke off.

“Wait,” he said. “Now where’s he gone?”

Bashir stopped dead. _Giel._ There was no sign of him. _Fuck, Fuck, Fuck. _He turned about, eyes frantically searching the concourse. Crowds of commuters streamed by._ He was here only a moment ago! Where the hell is he?_

“You’ve lost him!” said O’Brien. “Flaming great lizard and you’ve lost him!”

“What do you mean, _I’ve_ lost him?”

“This is typical of you Julian. Typical.”

“Oh, is it!”

“I told you; I said this was a bad idea.”

“Look,” said Bashir, “he can’t have got far. If you try over by the transporter pads, I’ll search the replicator stalls and - ”

He stopped talking. Across the concourse, the station attendant was stood at the ticket barrier with a group of Red Shirts huddled around her. She pointed in their direction.

“Miles…”

O’Brien followed his gaze. “Ah hell,” he said. “Just what we need.” A Constable and two heavily armed guards began to walk toward them. “Okay, let me do the talking.”

“Right.” Bashir hung back behind his friend. The Chief had a kind of magic. He was solid; down-to-earth; middle class. He was a man’s man. He was ... normal. Authority, regardless of the star system, species or century, tended to trust him.

“Good morning Officer,” said O’Brien. “Is there a problem?”

“A few routine enquiries sir,” said the Constable. “The station attendant says you gentleman have a Cardassian travelling with you?”

“No. We don’t. As you can see. She must have been mistaken.”

“Quite a mistake to make, isn’t it sir?”

“Yes. Yes it is.”

“Maybe Miles,” prompted Bashir, “the Denobulan tourist who asked us for directions…”

“Oh yes! The Denobulan tourist who asked us for directions. That must be the answer. She must have seen us talking to him. Easy to mix the two species up, from a distance.”

The Constable’s eyes narrowed. “Hmm.” His gaze flicked down to the suitcase in Bashir’s hand. “If we could take some ID please gentlemen.”

O’Brien looked at his watch. “Is that really necessary? We’ve got a train to catch.”

“Won’t take a minute sir.”

The larger guard thrust a tricorder in front of them.

O’Brien gave an amiable smile. “Certainly,” he said and pressed his thumb onto the ident pad. The device trilled happily; it’s screen turned green. A good, normal citizen.

Bashir tried not to tense. _Can I make a run for it? No. Perhaps if I - _

“And you next please sir?”

The Red Shirts waited expectantly. He swallowed._ No way to avoid it. _Beside him, O’Brien shifted uncomfortably. They both knew what was going to happen next. Bracing himself for the confrontation, Bashir slowly placed his thumb onto the pad…

“Augment,” the device intoned and lit up red. “Caution.” It beeped. “Augment. Implement stop and search procedure. Name: Bashir, J. Further biographical information displayed below. Caution: Augment.”

_Here we go…_

The change in mood was instant. The Red-Shirts grouped around Bashir, all civility gone. “What’s in the case?”

“What case?”

The Constable snatched it.

“Oh, you mean that case!”

Large fists grabbed hold of Bashir’s shirt, hauling him forward. “Don’t get cute Augment,” said the older guard. “Don’t get smart.”

“Hey!” said O’Brien. “Let go of him!”

“Would you step away sir?” The younger guard’s hand hovered over his phaser.

“It’s alright Miles.”

“The hell it is! You can’t push him around like that!”

“Over here please sir.”

O’Brien’s protests faded into the noise of the station as the younger guard moved him away. Taking a laser chisel from his pocket, the Constable placed the suitcase on floor and hammered at the lock. **CRACK.** The suitcase burst open. 8374 bars of unmarked, gold press Latinum glistened under the station’s electric light.

Bashir felt the guard’s grip on him tighten.

“What are you doing with this amount of currency?” asked the Constable.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“Are you being obstructive?”

“No.”

“I think you are Augment; I think you’re being obstructive. What do you think Sergeant Jones?”

“Definitely obstructive, sir.”

“Well I’m not_ trying_ to be.”

The guard pulled him closer. “You want to watch your tone of voice when you’re speaking to us Augment. You want to be polite. Understand?”

“Yes,” said Bashir. _Yes, I understand you ignorant, narrow-minded piece of - _

_Miles. Where’s Miles? _He looked for his friend. But O’Brien was now far beyond the ticket barrier, held back by the younger guard and yet another patrol of Red-Shirts. _Okay, stay calm Julian. Don’t let them provoke you_. _Getting out of here and finding Giel: that’s all that matters. That what’s important._

“Cuff him,” said the Constable.

“Wait – what?” Before Bashir could react, the guard pulled his arms behind his back. He winced as the restraints went on and dug into his wrists. “I haven’t done anything!”

“Search him for weapons.”

“I don’t have any sodding weapons!”

The guard shoved him hard against a nearby pillar. “Quiet. Stay still.”

Hands began to feel along Bashir’s legs. He inhaled. _One. Two. Three_. The pat down moved further up his body. _Four. Five. Six._ He hated this; hated how powerless he was; hated the indignity of the whole thing. _Seven, eight, nine…_

Most of all he hated having to stay calm.

The guard dug inside Bashir’s jacket pockets. “Some interesting items here sir,” he said and handed them to his commanding officer.

“A scramble bracelet,” tutted the Constable. “That’s illegal for a start.” He inspected Giel’s PADD. “And what’s this?”

“It’s mine. It’s my private property.”

“Looks Cardassian to me.”

“That’s because it is. Argh!” Bashir cried out as the guard twisted his arm.

“What did I say about getting smart, Augment?”

“Stop…you’re not…” gasped Bashir. “You’re not allowed to…”

“Let me get this straight,” said the Constable. “You’re wandering around a major London station… in the middle of the rush hour… with a suitcase full of Latinum; a scramble bracelet and an unidentifiable piece of Cardassian tech…”

“Do you think he’s some sort of spy, sir? Or a saboteur; a fifth columnist?”

“He might be.”

The guard’s face lit up in violent excitement.

“Better hand him over for interrogation.” The Constable hit his combadge. “Waterloo Security to Intelligence.”

The comm-line clicked. “Starfleet Intelligence. Control here. Go ahead.”

“Request advice and assistance. We have one augmented male, mid-fifties, detained on suspicion of espionage - ”

“I’m not…” Pushed against the concrete pillar, Bashir struggled to breathe. “I’m not a spy! I’m a doctor. That’s all. Just… just a doctor; plain and simple.”

_Why is it no one ever believes that? _

_***_

Montag Giel stopped walking. Up ahead, the tube corridor divided. Two paths lay in front of him.

The one on the right, marked with a brown sign, was the way to the Bakerloo Line. _The way Doctor Bashir had said was to Marylebone station… the way to the Ferengi Embassy…_

The one on the left, marked with a blue sign, said ‘to the Victoria Line’.

Giel hesitated.

He bit his lip.

The rattle of the vacuum underground trains reverberated around him.

_There’s no real harm in sneaking off_, he reasoned. _Okay, Doctor Bashir might be a bit worried; but I won’t be long. To come so far and be so close…_

_I will go to the Embassy, I promise. _

_Just afterwards…_

Reaching into his pocket, he took out a crumpled tourist leaflet. He’d found it halfway across the galaxy; back on Cardassia –used as a bookmark inside an old copy of _A Tale Of Two Cities _that the Doctor had lent him. It’s edges had begun to turn yellow with age but the text was still clear:

**Visit The British Library, **it said in large, friendly letters. **Browse our archives containing over 200 million items.**

“Two hundred million items,” whispered Giel in awe.

He flipped the leaflet over.

**HOW TO FIND US**. **The library can be reached by beam or hovercar. We are also a two minute walk from Kings Cross Station on the Victoria Line. **Beneath the text was a photo of the main reading room - wooden-panelled; well-lit; it’s shelves stacked with books. _So many books._ _Thousands and thousands of them._ _Far more than one person could read in a lifetime…_

Paradise beckoned. 

Giel turned left and headed for the Victoria Line. 


	4. The Choice

Starfleet Intelligence HQ towered above Russell Square; an enormous concrete structure of glittering white. Bashir had been jostled inside, taken down a labyrinth of underground corridors and dumped in an interrogation cell.

He took another look around at his surroundings in the gloom: a table, two chairs, a single electric light_. _This had been his world for the last ten hours; a grey, windowless room and three humourless guards. His throat burnt with thirst in the stagnant air.

He’d been given no food; no water.

_Ten fucking hours._ He drummed his fingers on the table.

“Stop it,” said the guard.

Bashir sighed. “Are you allowed to keep me here this long?”

“No.”

“Does that mean I can go then?”

“No.”

_Keep calm_, he told himself._ Don’t provoke them. Don’t make the situation worse._ _The Chief saw you being arrested. He’ll kick up a fuss. He’ll track you down. He'll find you. _

They’d taken all of his belongings. _The bracelet, the PADD, Sisko’s combadge_…_The Latinum. _He’d already given up hope of ever seeing it again. Augments were not allowed to hold currency._ Even if by some miracle they do let me go without charge, the Federation Reserve will still confiscate it. __It’ll take years to raise that much again. _

_I am never going to get a passport._

The door unbolted and a woman in a tailored green suit entered the cell. Bashir shifted in his seat. Everything about the woman screamed ‘authority’; her confident manner, her sophisticated appearance…

She walked over to him, holding a black folder in one hand and a cup of Tarkalean tea in the other.

He swallowed. His eyes lingered on the cup.

Once, a long time ago, he’d sat at a table for two not unlike this one and asked Garak a question: what had he thought of himself as, back when he was a member of The Obsidian Order? A spy? An assassin? An agent? A torturer? At the time, Garak had paused; given his infuriating half-smile and replied that he preferred to think of himself as ‘a dedicated public servant’.

_This woman_, thought Bashir, as he watched her drink the tea very deliberately in front of him, _definitely thinks of herself as a dedicated public servant._

“Ahhh,” she sighed in satisfaction. “All gone.” She discarded the cup. “Oh dear; how thoughtless of me Doctor. You’ve been here quite a while. You’re probably _terribly_ thirsty.”

“No, it’s alright. I had a drink.”

“Did you?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yesterday.”

Her mouth curved into a smile. “Good.” She turned to address the guards. “Get out,” she said. “All of you.”

The guards did, filing into the corridor and shutting the door.

The woman threw the folder onto the table and sat opposite Bashir. “Computer: turn off the cell log.”

“Operation prohibited by Federation Law,” intoned the computer. “Voice ident and Level Eight Authorisation code required.”

“This is Commander Samantha J. Quinn. Authorisation - Delta, Whisky, Tango.”

“Affirmative. Code accepted Commander Quinn. The cell log is now deactivated.”

Bashir's breathing quickened. Off the record worried him. Windowless rooms worried him. He’d been tortured three times in his life; twice by the Federation. His panic grew. _I can’t stay here. I have to get out. I have to - _

_Keep calm Doctor_. Garak’s voice echoed in his head._ Remember: an interrogation is like a poker game. Don’t show your hand. Tormenter or target; no matter which side of the table you sit on, the rules are always the same. _

_You know this game. You’ve gotten a lot better at it over the years. Be patient. Wait for your opponent to make the first move. Let her break the silence. Let her speak first…_

“I have a job for you,” said Quinn.

“I’m not allowed to work. Sorry. I don’t have citizenship.”

“Easily fixed.”

“What?” Bashir hesitated. “Wait: what…what do you mean?”

Quinn took a small, blue booklet from inside her jacket pocket. She placed it on the table in front of him. 

_A Federation Passport!_ He sat up straight.

“It’s yours,” she said. “Already filled out.”

“Am I talking to Starfleet Intelligence or Section 31?”

“Do you really care?”

Bashir’s hand twitched. He licked his cracked lips, his mouth dry with thirst. _A Passport. _The three bright stars of the founding worlds glistened on its cover, etched in gold. _It’s a trap. A lure to tempt me in._ _All the same… _

He grasped for it.

Quinn got there first. “Ah-ah,” she said. “Nothing’s free, even in utopia. You of all people should know that.” She returned the passport to her jacket pocket.

“It’s payment then?” said Bashir.

“Yes.”

“For what?”

“Cardassia.”

He hesitated. “What about Cardassia?”

“You lived there for seven years. You know the customs; speak the language; understand the people - better than anyone else on Earth. There are Cardassians with whom you have…”

She smiled icily. 

“…well let’s just say an _intimate_ level of trust.”

Bashir said nothing and kept his expression neutral.

“Our last operative in Lakat was arrested, tortured and killed by the Order just over a year ago. The Federation has no agents in the Cardassian system; no information on what’s happening there, other than from their own state broadcasts.”

He relaxed slightly. “Is that all you want from me; intelligence?”

“There was an election last month,” said Quinn. “They have a new Castellan. Did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“A political outsider by all accounts. As far as we can tell he’s never held public office before. We have almost no background on him; no way to predict what he’s going to do. No way to know what kind of Castellan he’s going to be.”

“Who is it?”

“Larrc Kotan.”

“Kotan!” exclaimed Bashir, unable to hide his surprise.

“You know him?”

“Well yes, of course! I mean, I know of him. Everyone on Cardassia does. He’s a Hebitian Leader. An important one. The equivalent of an old Earth Archbishop or an Iman. He led the movement to get illegitimate and orphaned Cardassians the vote.”

“Our information suggests he’s an isolationist?”

“Most Cardassians are nowadays.”

She nodded. “True enough. Go on Doctor: what else do you know?”

“Um, Kotan’s socially liberal. Pro-democracy. A good public speaker. He’s anti-military, anti-war; not to mention a major opponent of The Order…”

“Very good,” said Quinn.

_She’s impressed_. A small thrill of pride ran through him. Self-loathing quickly followed._ Still your father’s son Julian. Still eager for any scrap of approval. It’s built into your DNA. You’re trained to perform. You want to tell her what you know. And not just to get the passport. _

_You want to show off._

“Did you ever meet Kotan?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Bashir. “Once, briefly. A few years ago at the hospital in Lakat. There’d been a fire in one of the temples. He came to visit the survivors.”

“And?”

“And… I liked him. He was interested in the patients. He was polite to me as a visiting alien - not all Cardassians are. Parmak, one of the other doctors on the ward, was a big supporter; he’d attended many of Kotan’s sermons.” 

_Larrc Kotan as Castellan!_ Bashir paused to consider the charismatic, professor-like man in his memory. _Kotan as Castellan…_ He warmed to the idea. “It’s certainly a change from the rulers they’ve had in the past. If he can keep the Guls at bay, he could be good for Cardassia.”

“If,” said Quinn. “But that’s no easy task. The Federation Council would prefer… someone else.”

“Someone else?”

“Yes. Someone strong enough to keep The Order in line. Someone pragmatic; with past experience of government - a former Castellan perhaps. A former Castellan…” she said, “with a more **open** **mind**.”

Bashir’s whole body tensed. “Garak,” he whispered. “They want Garak?”

“Yes.”

“_Elim_ Garak?”

Quinn cleared her throat. “Kotan is too fixed in his beliefs. He’s an idealist.”

“He’s a good man."

“Doesn’t matter."

"An honorable man."

"He isn’t pro-Federation.”

“Neither is Garak!”

“Not yet,” she said. “However… he could be... persuaded...”

_Fucking Hell._

“That’s the job! That’s what you want me to do? Get Garak to depose Kotan and take Cardassia into the Federation! Christ!”

“Doctor - ”

Pushing his chair back, Bashir got to his feet and began to pace up and down the cell. “You’re living in a dream world Quinn! This…this is pure fantasy!”

“You’re his friend. He listens to you.”

“Ha! He absolutely does not! I can’t control Garak! Garak can’t even control Garak! And even if I could get him to do what you wanted him to; believe me – I wouldn’t.

“Why not?”

He gaped at her. “Why not!”

Quinn spread her hands evenly on the table. “You’ve dedicated your life to the ideals of the Federation. Galactic unity; open borders; peace. All we're asking is that you speak up for what you already believe.”

“Kotan is the democratically elected leader of Cardassia. We are talking about instigating a coup on an alien world!”

She sighed. “So that’s it then. You won’t do it?”

“No, I won’t.”

“Not even for a passport? Not even for your citizenship?”

“Fuck the citizenship. And fuck the Federation Council. They would ‘prefer someone else’ indeed! The arrogance! It’s against galactic law; it’s against the Charter. It’s a betrayal of everything we’re supposed to stand for.”

Quinn yawned, loudly.

Bashir’s anger grew. “I could go to the press,” he threatened. “Tell them everything. Jake Sisko works for The Times; their office is just across the river.”

She looked at him with pity. 

“I could do it,” he said. “I could.”

Quinn said nothing. Instead, she moved the black folder into the centre of the table in front of her.

A moment passed. She waited.

“Alright,” said Bashir. “Fine. I’ll take the bait. What’s in the folder?”

“Identity files,” she said calmly. “Around two hundred of them.” She opened the folder to reveal a neat stack of salmon coloured papers. “Oh, you know the sort of thing Doctor; biographical information, school grades, medical reports...”

“I know. So what?”

Quinn picked up the top file. “Sofia Li Cortez,” she read. “Born in Rio de Janeiro. Eleven years old and exceptionally bright for her age. Health - excellent. Vision - excellent. GPA of 99.99%...”

Bashir’s jaw tightened.

“From an inferior family,” continued Quinn with distaste. “The father is an under-achiever. The mother failed the most basic maths requirement on the Academy entrance exam. Their daughter however extraordinary...”

She moved to the next file.

“Jalen Mamadan. Aged seven. Sent away to live with his Aunt in the Arctic Desert. His maths teacher says she saw him solve a Rubik’s cube in thirteen seconds.”

_Others__. _Bashir’s mind raced._ There are others, like me, in hiding. They’re out there living normal lives. I always knew there might be. I knew I couldn’t be the only one. Or at least I hoped I…_

_There are others. I’m not alone._

_And the authorities know. They’re watching them. _

“You look unwell Doctor.” Quinn gestured pleasantly to the empty seat. “Sit back down, won’t you?”

He did.

“Svetlana Ivanov. Twenty years old and a Law student on Io. Graduated top of her class but for some completely unfathomable reason submitted false bio-records when applying for the Bar.”

“They’re children. Please Quinn; there’s no need to - ”

“Oh, this is the best one!” She grinned. “Listen to this; Thomas Zhou, son of a basalt miner in the Sea of Tranquillity. Age fourteen and already 6 ft 5; can you believe! Couldn’t even catch a ball before his family’s vacation to Adegion… now fielding offers from the LA Lakers and the Kronos Titans.”

“It’s not their fault. Please, just... please leave them alone."

“It’s a simple choice Doctor,” she said her voice cold. “You can work for us; you can go to Cardassia and speak to Garak. Or, I can leak little Sofia’s file,” she placed it in front of him, “to the press.”

“You’ll destroy her life.”

“If something can be destroyed by the truth,” said Quinn, “it deserves to be.”

Bashir’s gaze fell on the holo-photo. A young girl stood perfectly still, spine perfectly straight on Copacabana Beach whilst the ocean waves gently moved behind her. She smiled a fake plastic smile that was painfully familiar to him.

He closed his eyes. “She is eleven years old.”

Quinn flicked through the rest of the files with her manicured fingernail. “There really are an _awful _lot of them, aren’t there? How the public will react, I shudder to think. You were a one-off. You were tolerable. But if another _freak_ is discovered; and another and another, week after week on the evening news well…”

She smiled icily.

“…it’s bound to cause a panic. People will demand ‘Something Be Done’. What might happen, I wonder? If there’s a catastrophe or a war. Or another Khan? If people were frightened enough, or desperate enough…”

A chill ran up Bashir’s spine.

“…where would it end?”

“You were listening,” he half-whispered.

“Hm?”

“To what Miles and I were saying. To our conversations. You’re repeating what I said before! You’ve put surveillance devices in my friend’s home!”

“Now **_really_** Doctor. Where do these wild fantasies of yours come from? That sort of thing doesn’t happen here! This isn’t Cardassia, you know. This is Earth.”

_Don’t react._ Bashir stilled. _Don’t give her the satisfaction._

_Disassociate. Shut down_.

Deadening himself, he stared blankly past Quinn into space_. Don’t show anger. Don’t show pain. Don’t show them anything. _He reverted to Jules’s only form of defence. She had all the power; he knew that. There was nothing he could do except…

_Escape. Don’t be here; don’t be you. _

_Don’t be anyone. _

It was safer that way. It was the first lesson he’d ever learnt. Be who they wanted you to be in that moment. And if you couldn’t…if you really couldn’t… be quiet and still and no one until you could.

“The USS Odyssey is waiting for us beyond Mars,” said Quinn. “We’ll beam aboard in the morning. Try and get some sleep.”

She stood, scraping her chair back across the floor.

“You can keep the identity files if you like; it’ll take ten days to reach Cardassia and you’ll need something to read on the way. Plenty of time to get to know Sofia and the others.”

_Don’t react._

“I’ll have the guards bring you some food and water. Carry out your mission Doctor; get Garak to join the Federation and everyone can remain hidden. Everyone can go on living their lives. And I’ll make sure you get your passport and citizenship back. I promise.”

She paused.

“But fail us… and I will expose the Augments. All of them.” Quinn shut the door. The lock bolt slammed across. The single light flickered out.

Bashir was left alone in the dark.

For the first time in a very long while, his fingers itched to hold Kukalaka.


	5. The Daughters Of Garak

In the public gardens, high up in the hills on the edge of Lakat, an elderly Elim Garak tended to a flowerbed. Being a gardener suited him; retirement from Cardassian politics suited him. After eight decades of murder, ambition, scheming and power he was trying to lead a simple life.

He was trying, as best he knew how, to be good.

He planted an Edosian Orchid in the clay in front of him, patting down the loose topsoil to cover its roots, just as his Uncle Tolan had taught him in his childhood. The summer was drawing to an end. An orchid’s roots were as delicate and fine as spun lace; Garak knew they needed to be hidden deep in the earth to have any chance of surviving the cold, salt winds that would soon blow in from the Western sea.

He hummed, happy in his work. He’d given nearly everything away. His wealth; his power; his position in the Castellan’s Government. All of it had gone to his adopted proteges – Eneril and Rhegan, the so-called ‘Daughters of Garak’.

Inside the pocket of his humble gardener’s coat sat the last piece of his old life he had left: an optolythic data-rod containing the private, pre-war archives of Enabran Tain, Head of The Obsidian Order. It was a goldmine of blackmail material. Family scandals, youthful indiscretions, embarrassing political views; they were all on there. The data-rod held ‘the dirt’ on nearly every public figure on Cardassia over forty.

_Once Eneril and Rhegan have killed the last of my enemies, I’ll give it to them. They’ll be almost invincible. _

_They’ll be invincible and I’ll… _

_I’ll be just a gardener – harmless, humble, elderly; defanged. Not worth anyone’s time to plot against. I’ll be safe. I’ll be free. I’ll be able to take the first step toward salvation; towards forgiveness._

_I need to know that someone…_

_I need to know that **she**_ _forgives me._

**Eeeeeeiiilllk!** Something shrieked for attention in the neighbouring flowerbed. Something that _oozed_ and _wriggled_. Something that _hissed_ and _snapped**…**_

_The hybrid._ Picking up his spade, Garak hobbled over to the screaming plant as fast as his old legs could carry him.

Of all his botanical creations, the hybrid was his favourite. It was high maintenance. It was hideous - a Yateveo Pitfall crossed with a small pot of Earth Roses the Doctor had left behind; a Lovecraftian nightmare of thrashing creepers and thorns, blooming with delicate flowers.

**Eeeeeiiiiilllk! **

“I’m coming, I’m coming. I’m - ” Garak froze. Up-close it was obvious. The hybrid’s leaves had turned yellow; it’s tendrils were sluggish and coated in resin.

_It’s sick_. His stomach lurched. _Another one._

He’d already lost so many of the garden’s plants. His freshly planted orchids were the third batch of the year. The new aramanth bushes he’d put in had simply wilted and died. Others, like the hybrid, had struggled on but nothing, not even the near indestructible pitfalls could be said to be thriving. The truth was impossible to deny. With each passing season, slow but surely, the garden was dying.

_Why__?_ The question tormented him. _Why is everything dying? Why can’t I make the garden as beautiful as Tolan did, all those years ago in my childhood?_

An answer began to crawl through the self-loathing tangle of his mind. _It’s you, Elim Garak. It’s you. __The decay of your damned soul writ large across nature; an outward manifestation of the monster within; the long shadow of Tain’s madness you still cannot shake…_

His panic grew. _Is that true? __In spite of everything I’ve done, every part of myself I’ve changed, in spite of the Doctors’ influence… _

_Am I still him?_ _Am I my father?_ _The mirror image of a man who died in a prison cell; blind, bitter and unloved?_

In the distance, the singular bell of the ruined Cathedral clanged out from the north bank. Garak’s heart leapt. It was midday, it was time for his weekly appointment. Exchanging his spade for a walking stick, he hobbled across to his usual park bench; the one with the best view out over the lawn.

He sat with a groan and he waited.

The minutes passed. A gentle breeze rustled through the Ithian trees thick with copper blossom; an eel bird fluttered overhead. His eyes grew heavy. The bustle of the city seemed a world away.

A woman entered through the garden gate.

Garak sat forward. There she was: Kel Lokar - the child with another man’s name. The child he’d abandoned; grown now, over forty with long blue-black hair and a baby daughter of her own in her arms.

She was his secret. She had always been his secret. A weakness he couldn’t afford; not as The Son of Tain, not in exile and _certainly _not during his years in power as Castellan.

From her first breath his devotion to Kel had terrified him. The bond had been instant, fatherhood instinctive. He’d kill for her; die for her; betray The Order; betray Cardassia; do anything; sacrifice anyone to keep her safe.

The danger was obvious. As long as he remained a powerful man with enemies, he couldn’t acknowledge her. All he could do… all he’d ever done… was keep his distance and watch her life pass him by from afar.

He longed to speak to her; to introduce himself; to explain.

She was so close now!

“Patience Garak,” he whispered to himself. “Patience. It isn’t safe… not yet… ”

As usual, Kel carried her wriggling toddler to the grass. She stepped through the neat rows of flesh-eating pitchers, taking care to avoid their slobbering creepers and poison barbs. Garak had learnt their routine. Every rest day, after the Hebitian service had ended, mother and child would come to the garden to play. And so, every rest day for the past year, the Gardener had been sat on his bench waiting to watch them.

“Asha,” said Kel to her daughter, “now remember what we talked about with Daddy. The lava pools are dangerous. Don’t crawl straight towards them like last time.”

“Down!” commanded Asha. “Down! We’re in the garden. Put down!”

“Not toward the lava pools. Understand?”

The child sucked her lip. “Yes.”

“Okay. I’m putting you down…”

Asha began to crawl the moment her fat knees hit the ground. She went in fast, wobbly circles around and around the hem of her mother’s robes, a whirling dervish of ribbon and white lace. “Grass!” she observed, loudly. “More grass! Flower! Bug! Another flower! Another bug!”

Garak swelled with pride. Here his granddaughter was, barely a year old and already her attention to detail was _excellent_. Soon, she’d be shedding her baby scales; then, she’d be learning to walk - he could hardly wait! He’d missed Kel’s first steps and had no intention of making the same mistake with Asha.

The child stopped crawling. “Birdy!” she exclaimed, all wide blue eyes, chubby cheeks and angelic ringlets. “Look Mama!” She pointed. “Birdy!”

Kel turned to look. “Where?”

With her mother successfully distracted, Asha was already away across the lawn, heading fast toward the simmering pools. “Lava!” she shouted happily. Garak laughed.

“Agh!” cried Kel.

“Lava! Lava! Lava!”

Kel ran after her. “You little devil.”

“Lava!” protested Asha as she was scooped up.

“No.”

“Lava!” she wailed. “Laaaava!”

“You are a natural born liar, Asha Lang-Lokar. I don’t know where you get it from.”

Kel stroked the child’s tail to calm her down, and rocking her to and fro, carried her back to the grass. Garak’s heart longed to follow. It was so easy to love them… so easy to imagine himself sunbathing in the light with them, playing tag and spoiling Asha rotten.

_I am going to get her a riding pup_, he decided. _No, not just one - a whole litter of them!_ _She’ll have an entire pack! And I need to buy her some chocolate. That’s what grandfathers do for their granddaughters; they buy them chocolate… _

_Delavian__ chocolate. _No other kind would do_. _It would be tricky to get hold of some, given Starfleet’s blockade of the system; but Asha deserved the best. He began to plot. _If I hired a Ferengi ship, bribed the Captain and obtained a false Bajoran import code then it wouldn’t be too difficult to - _

“Garak.”

He jumped and, recognising the voice which had disturbed his scheming, turned around.

Rhegan stood within arm’s reach – smiling, ever-pleasant and in exactly the correct position to be in if she wanted to snap his neck. Her manner, as always, was affable. Beside her, lurked her sister Eneril - scowling, agitated, the tip of her tail coiling like a Klingon sand viper.

Garak blinked._ So! My proteges have learnt to creep up behind me without my noticing. How interesting…_

_…not to mention, alarming._

Now they knew they could do it, there was little doubt in his mind they’d try it again - probably with a knife. The so-called ‘Daughters of Garak’ were a force, a spider crawling through Cardassian society; terrifying, manipulative and cruel.

He’d discovered them when they were teenagers; two half feral orphans scavenging on the carcasses left under the rubble after the war. Helping them had, at first, been an act of pity driven only by kindness. He’d fed the sisters; lodged them under the good influence of Doctor Parmak and paid for their education at an Hebitian Seminary. Compassion was still a distasteful concept to him; weak and un-Cardassian, but he’d contracted a conscience during exile and found he simply couldn’t do anything else _but _help.

It quickly became clear however, that neither Rhegan nor Eneril had the makings of a cleric. What they had instead was talent for torture, for flattery and for murder.

He’d transferred them to the Bamarren Institute and (after they’d graduated with honours) taken them under his wing. The ‘Daughters of Garak’ would inherit everything: his network; his wealth; his family name and the status it commanded; even Tain’s archives…

… if, in return, they killed his last remaining enemies and swore to keep him protected in his dotage.

He smiled at them and congratulated himself. They were the perfect retirement plan.

“My dear Daughters” he said, “you are early.”

“That is Surjack’s fault,” said Rhegan.

“Oh?”

“Yes. He died _far _too quickly.”

“It makes no sense,” sulked Eneril. “I slit his throat just right. He should have held on in agony for hours. He should have been fun. But there was no gasping. No pleading. He didn’t even writhe.”

Garak hesitated. “It’s done then?”

“It’s done.”

“And Memad and Brun?”

“Have both been dealt with.”

“Already?”

His hand slipped to touch the data-rod in his coat pocket. _I’m almost there. Almost free. Almost home_. His heartbeat quickened.

“And Gul Vorlem? Did you manage to find him? He can’t be trusted.” He struggled for his walking stick and groaning, pulled himself to his feet.

“Here let me help you,” said Rhegan.

He pushed her offered arm away. “I don’t need you to mollycoddle me,” he snapped. “What I need you to do is kill Gul Vorlem.”

“We have.”

“What?”

“He’s dead,” she said. “All your enemies are dead, Garak. You can retire in peace.”

“I can?” He risked a surreptitious glance across the lawn to where Kel and Asha were bathing in the sunlight. “I can…,” he whispered, the reality of his situation sinking in.

_It’s done. It’s safe. I’m free. Once I’ve handed over the Tain’s data-rod to Eneril and Rhegan, I’ll be just a gardener. _

_And a gardener, in all his simplicity, poverty and insignificance, can afford something no wealthy Castellan ever can... He can have a daughter and a granddaughter. He can have a family. _

“You know,” said Garak, as he began to reminisce, “when I was a boy, I used to come here with my uncle, Tolan. He was a gardener too...”

Eneril stifled a yawn.

“I’d perch on the edge of the dirt cart and watch him plant orchid bulbs, the air thick with glowing Viperflies. There were so many Viperflies back then, all over the city…”

“Were there really,” said Rhegan, not the least bit interested.

“You don’t see many anymore. But they used to move in great swarms through the streets at sunset; and the Lapwings living in the Cathedral’s spires used to dive and swoop to catch them.” He paused and smiled to himself, lost in his hope for the future and the warmth of his memory.

Something began to niggle at his detail orientated mind. An **observation**. He tried to ignore it. But it clawed for attention and fought its way in.

_I can’t remember the last time I saw a Lapwing in Lakat._ _Not a single, solitary one_. The realisation swept over him like nightfall across the desert: sudden, swift and alarming.

“Where are the Lapwings?” he whispered.

“What?” said Rhegan.

“The Lapwings! They should be here. They’ve always been here!”

“Are you alright?”

His agitation grew. “Something is very wrong. Where are they?”

“Garak – “

He grabbed her by both arms and shook her. “Where are they!”

“I - I don’t know.” She frowned, clearly puzzled by his behaviour and his wild, mad expression. “You’re tired. The digging has worn you out. Why don’t you sit down a moment?”

She tried to guide him toward the bench.

“No!” He pushed her away. “I’ve been distracted. I’ve missed something. Something blindingly obvious.” He paced up and down. “What is it? What haven’t I seen? What have I forgotten?”

_Giel__ was here_. His Byzantium mind kicked suddenly back in, putting the pieces together. _He came to see me, tried to show me a report from the Ministry, something about a catastrophic change to the bio-system… _

_I thought it was another one of his fantasies. I told him to go away._ _But the Lapwings are gone. And the Viperflies too. And the plants are dying... _

“It fits,” he realised and felt as though he was awakening from a dream. “It all fits with what Giel was trying to tell me!”

“_Giel_?” said Rhegan, with unconcealed disdain. “Giel is an idiot. Reading too much Earth fiction has addled his brain.”

“It isn’t just _this_ garden that’s dying. It isn’t me; it’s not my soul. I’m not the cause…”

Eneril leant close to her sister’s ear. ”What’s the senile old fool prattling on about now?”

“Look!” Garak pointed toward the westward hills. “Those fields over there! They’re chocked full of Meya lilies. They should be a deep crimson colour this time of year, not brown!”

He swung around.

“And the Ithian tree outside the gate! Tolan planted that. It used to be twice as high. Everything’s wilting! The garden isn’t the same because the world isn’t the same. Cardassia’s changed.”

“Nothing has changed,” said Rhegan. There was a trace of impatience now in her voice. “Your memory is playing tricks on you; remembering the garden brighter and more beautiful than it really was.”

“No. No… it _was_ different…”

“You’re romanticising the past.”

He blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

She sighed. “It is nostalgia for your childhood; for how the world used to be.”

Garak gave a long, hollow laugh. “Oh, my dear Rhegan.” He laughed again. “My dear, _dear_ Daughter. I’m afraid that can’t be true. You see - no one could feel nostalgia for the kind of childhood Elim had...”

Turning around, he began to walk with purpose toward the garden gate. The Daughters followed him.

“Wait,” said Rhegan. “Where are you going?”

“I’m coming back with you to Cair Daun. I need to speak to The Castellan.”

“No!” hissed Eneril.

He stopped dead. “No?”

“We’re sick of waiting, old man. We want the data-rod. We want Tain’s archive.”

“_Do you now_?” In a shimmer of the midday sun, the good natured Gardener was gone. His face first went blank and then it contorted. Someone else crawled up from deep within him; another aspect, another persona – violent; intelligent; aware.

The air sharpened.

The Son of Tain was here. Both Daughters took a step back

“Garak,” said Rhegan carefully, “forgive my sister. She spoke out of turn. It will, of course, be our pleasure to accompany you to see Castellan Kotan.”

“Yes. It will,” he said and reached for the metal latch to push the gate open.

“Ah - “ She stopped him and smiling, spread her hands wide in a familial embrace. “Please allow us to reaffirm our loyalty and our love. We serve you as daughters would serve their father - with caring, true and obedient hearts.”

Garak laughed. “Oh! Now _t__hat_, my dear, is a lie. However…”

He looked back at the distant figure of Kel and Asha, clothed in white, sitting amid the flowers on the lawn. His manner softened.

“… as lies go, for a lonely old man it is an enchanting one.”


	6. Infinite Space

The _USS Odyssey_ moved through space. On her lowest deck, confined to quarters, Bashir lay on a standard issue bunk and counted the cracks in the ceiling paint. He was restless; irritated. The cabin’s air vent buzzed fucking constantly.

He tried to block it out. Tried to listen past the sound, to all the other noises of the ship. _The rhythmic warble of the cloaking device. Faded chatter in the corridor outside. A change in the hum of the engines..._

_We’re slowing down. _

After ten days out in space, the ship was approaching the Cardassian system. The voyage had taken them alongside planets, stars and nebulae; past quasars, antimatter voids and primordial black holes. _Thousands of suns and hundreds of home-worlds; all the wonders of the cosmos… _

_… and I haven’t seen any of it. All I’ve seen are these quarters and, three times a day, the impassive Lieutenant McKenna with a food tray._

He was close to going stir crazy.

His gaze fell, yet again, on the lock on the door. The mechanism wasn’t complex - just a tripartite bolt and latch. He’d be able to get through it in a matter of seconds. But, he reminded himself, he was being good. Playing along with what Section 31 wanted him to do, who they wanted him to be…

_A well behaved Augment who is going to carry out his mission. _

He didn’t like it, but there was no other option; too much was at stake. He had to get his citizenship back. He had to keep the children hidden and safe. _I’ll go find Garak, assess the lie of the land._ _After all there are a lot of benefits to being part of the Federation. It wouldn’t be that bad an idea for Cardassia to join… _

_Would it?_

_And_ _maybe we don’t have to depose Kotan. Maybe we could try to convince him instead, persuade him to act in the best interests of his people._

Footsteps approached in the corridor outside. Bashir sat up. _McKenna._

_Already though? He delivered breakfast less than an hour ago. It can’t be him. Unless something’s changed, something’s happened… _

The lock trilled and the door swished open. McKenna entered, tense and on edge. A patterned robe and black cloak, worn in a typical Cardassian style, covered most of his uniform.

“What’s going on?” said Bashir.

“Stay where you are.” The Lieutenant clambered onto the desk. Stretching up to reach the air vent, he pushed it closed. The buzzing stopped.

“Why did you do that?”

McKenna didn’t answer. Instead, he calmly got down off the desk, took his phaser from his holster, set the weapon to kill and aimed it directly at the middle of Bashir’s forehead.

_Bloody hell!_ He froze, unsure how to react. _What’s that for? I haven’t done anything! I’ve just been sat here… _

The ship-wide comm crackled open. “All hands,” said a steady voice, “this is the Captain. We are about to cross into Cardassian space. As you know from your mission briefings, the border is defended by an audio missile field. This field is highly sensitive. Any noise may trigger the array. It is critical to the survival of this ship that we maintain silent running while we pass through. All none-essential systems are about to be shut down. Captain out.” The comm clicked off.

“Hear that?” said McKenna.

“Yes.”

“Call out and betray our position and I’ll shoot you.”

Bashir sighed. “Why on earth would I call out?”

“Be quiet.”

“If a missile hits the ship, I’ll be blown to pieces same as everyone else.”

“I said shut up.”

The lights powered down to an amber twilight. The warp core disengaged. The beeps of the computer, as constant a background noise to life in space as the calls of birds to life in England suddenly ceased and a strange hush fell over _The Odyssey_.

But, a starship can never be made completely silent. She still has to breathe.

Bashir lay back on his bunk and listened to the faint whir of the life support systems and the soft but still audible hum of the engine propellers ticking over at standard impulse.

_Nice work Julian. Absolutely brilliant. You’ve got yourself trapped in a locked room, on a ship in mid-fucking space, that’s liable to be blown up in the next few minutes if anyone coughs._

He closed his eyes.

_I am going to ignore the situation; pretend none of this is happening. I’ll try to sleep - that’ll help. _

_To sleep, perchance to dream…_

_But to dream of what exactly? _He considered his options._ Far off worlds? Ursula Andrews? Winning the last set of a Wimbledon Final. Being back on the station before the war. Having lunch in Lakat with Garak. Or… _

_… or the future again. The usual night terror of tear gas and execution squads and massacres and - _

_Ay, there’s the rub_. He opened his eyes and his gaze focused on the end of McKenna’s phaser barrel. The light on the weapon blinked red - set to kill. Suddenly, the future didn’t seem that far away.

The ship lights came back on, suddenly and at full brightness. The warp engine kicked back in. On the far wall, the panel screens flickered back to life and the familiar babbling of the computer returned.

McKenna exhaled. “We’re through.”

The comm beeped. “Quinn to McKenna.”

He hit his combadge. “Go ahead Commander.”

“We’re in orbit. Bring the Doctor to the transporter room.”

“Yes ma’am.”

***

When they arrived at the transporter room, Quinn was stood waiting for them.

“We’re in luck,” she said. “I’ve managed to hack into the Order’s central surveillance system and locate Garak. He’s in Cair Daun; the Imperial Palace on the Ba’atan peninsula.”

“A palace?” McKenna frowned. “My mission brief said this Garak no longer had anything to do with the government. It said he’d abdicated power.”

“Correct.”

“Then what’s he doing in a palace?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” said Quinn. “It’s an opportunity. The Cardassian state is highly centralised. Cair Daun is the perfect place from which to launch a coup. We must act quickly.” She drew her phaser. “Get on the transporter pad Doctor.”

“Not again,” he said. “Look, I’ve already agreed to work for you. Is it really necessary to do everything at phaser-point?”

She aimed at him. “Move.”

“Apparently, it is...” With a sigh, Bashir trudged onto the transporter. Selecting one of the glowing, circular pad-lights, he moved to stand on top of it.

Quinn waited for him to adopt the standard beaming position. Then, she holstered her phaser and returned to briefing her Lieutenant. “The palace is surrounded by a transporter shield. I’ll have to beam the two of you down a short distance from it.”

“Understood.”

“Wait; what?” said Bashir. “The _two_ of us?”

McKenna stepped up to join him on the transporter.

“Now hold on just a second. I can manage fine on Cardassia by myself. I don’t need a minder.”

“Don’t be a fool Doctor,” said Quinn. “You wouldn’t last five seconds down there alone and unarmed.” Bending down, she picked up a storage box hidden behind the console.

“What’s that?” he asked suspiciously.

She walked over and offered it to him. “Here.”

“What is it?”

“Open it and see.”

Bashir lifted the lid. _Giel’s PADD! And his death-trap of a scramble bracelet! And Sisko’s combadge! _This was too good to be true. He looked to Quinn for an explanation.

“I’m giving you your belongings back,” she said.

“So I can see. Why?”

“It’s the law. You’re officially being released from Starfleet custody.”

“Hm.”

“Go ahead Doctor, take them.” She gave him an encouraging smile. He hesitated, still trying to work out the trick. “Well come on!” she laughed. “Take them! They are _yours_, after all.”

_I don’t know what she’s up to… but sod it._ Bashir quickly reached for the scramble bracelet and fastened it to his wrist. He pocketed Giel’s PADD and picked up Sisko’s combadge.

“Your badge from your days in the service?” asked Quinn.

“Yes,” he lied.

“I thought as much; it was tuned to a very old frequency. I had my engineer inspect it. The façade is rusted but it still works.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I’ll allow you to wear it for the mission.”

“Oh, will you? Thanks very much…”

He pinned the combadge to his shirt. Beneath it, his heart beat a little faster. After all these years, after everything he’d been through, he still got a thrill of pride from wearing it.

The _idea_ of adventure; of courage; of compassion was still there. 

He was representing _Humanity_; he was representing _Starfleet_. That meant as much to him now as it had to the idealistic, romantic, hopeless boy he’d been when he’d first put the insignia on.

Quinn walked behind the operator’s console. “Initiating start-up sequence,” she said. “Prepare for transport.”

“You know, your guards also took a considerable sum of Latinum off me…”

“Did they?”

“Yes.”

She shrugged. “Must have been misplaced.” Her hands moved down the control panel, activating the beam. “Energising.”

_Deep breath._ He inhaled. The glowing circle of the pad light began to throb beneath his feet. _Here we go... _The Odyssey dissolved. Darkness fell. He heard nothing; sensed nothing as his disembodied mind transported and left his eyes and ears far behind him.

It was always the same beaming within the Federation. By law, travellers had to dematerialize from the inside, out. The skeleton, nerves and internal organs raced ahead first; a person’s skin, hair and all other visible body parts trundled along later.

Only the old Klingon transporters did it the other way around. Dematerliasation from the outside, in. Bashir had seen it done once and it had scared the living crap out of him.

_No, inside-out beaming is far less disturbing. Far more sophisticated. It’s the civilised way to travel. _

_And travel does broaden the mind. Quite literally in this case. Into seven million atoms of brain whizzing over two hundred nautical miles of space…_

_If only though_, he thought as a familiar tingle ran through him, _if only the transporter engineers could get rid of this sensation._ _This momentary shiver of déjà vu. __The feeling; no - the instinct, that for a second at least, the reconstructed you was nothing more than a recollection of someone else… _

The heat hit the moment he materialised. He breathed in and welcomed a lungful of the first non-recirculated air he’d had in days along with the unmistakable, bleach-like taste of a chlorine rich atmosphere.

_Cardassia._ He’d forgotten just how alien it was. In front of him, the lone and level salt flats stretched far away; all that remained of a long-gone, ancient ocean, shining white under an indifferent yellow sky. There were no birds, no insects, no palms. No signs that life had ever existed here at all; save a few putrefying creeper-plants strewn across the parched, splintered ground.

Nothing moved. No tumbleweeds, no dust devils, no crumbling rock blown by the wind. The landscape was one of absolute stillness. Absolute desolation.

“What a dump,” said McKenna. The planet appeared to be as any Federation citizen would imagine it; a hostile wilderness; a barren wasteland – arid, bitter and uninviting.

“This is wrong,” said Bashir. His mind raced. _Maybe the transporter shield knocked the beam off-course? Maybe we’re on the Northern continent instead of where we should be... _He spun around. The towers of the Imperial Palace at Cair Daun could be seen behind them in the distance.

_We are in the right place_.

“What’s the matter?” said McKenna; his brow furrowed in concern. “What is it?”

“Look!”

He shrugged. “All I see is desert.”

“But that’s exactly the thing McKenna! The Ba’aten Peninsula _shouldn’t_ be a desert. This should be meadow. There should be blue salt-grass here, wildflowers and eel-peacocks. There should be tourist shuttles, people, riding hounds… Cardassian families on day trips from the city having picnics.”

Bashir moved toward the nearest shrivelled creeper. Most of what remained of the plant was putrefied and rancid. Its roots were exposed and the colour of ash; its stem had hardened almost to solid rock. “Something is very wrong.”

McKenna flicked open his tricorder and started to scan. “The Palace is eleven point two miles to the east of here. Damn.” Switching off the instrument, he returned it to his satchel. “We’ll need to keep up a good pace to reach it before nightfall. Come on.”

He set off walking; Bashir remained where he was. _Giel’s report said the plant life had already begun to die. But surely not this fast? And to this extent?_ He knocked the long dead creeper with his boot; a thick, grey mucus-like substance oozed from the stem and smeared across his sole. _What the hell -_

“Leave it Doctor!” shouted McKenna. The Lieutenant was already a good distance away, striding over the flats.

Bashir called after him. “This shouldn’t be like this!” He waited for a response: none came. “I think the planet may be undergoing some sort of ecological change! I think maybe Cardassia is dying! Do you hear me McKenna?”

“I hear you.”

“This needs to be investigated!”

“Not our mission; not our problem. Come on.”

Bashir gave the putrid creeper a final prod._ This can’t be environmental._ _Can it?_ _It’s certainly not a disease. At least, not of a kind I’ve ever seen before. _He set off over the flats, lost in thought. _Perhaps it’s poison? Or a radiation sickness? _Up ahead, McKenna had slowed down and was already panting heavily. _He’s unaccustomed to the heat. _Bashir quickened his pace, catching up just as a bead of sweat roll down the Lieutenant’s forehead and dripped off the tip of his nose.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious what’s happening to the plants here?” he asked.

“Nope,” said McKenna.

“Oh. Right.” He paused. “Well, I am. Why don’t you contact Quinn and ask her to send a science team down? The very least they can do is collect a few plant samples. I appreciate _The Odyssey_ probably doesn’t have a botanist… but any biologist, chemist or medic will do - so long as they know how to follow the correct genetic cataloguing procedures.”

“Are you going to talk this much all the way to the palace?”

“I’d be happy to supervise the research myself,” volunteered Bashir. The Lieutenant gave him a look. “After we’ve finished our primary mission of course. I’m not usually one to brag, but I’m something of a specialist when it comes to isolating pathogens in alien RNA. In fact, my final thesis at the Academy was on - ”

He broke off.

_What was that?_ All his enhanced senses screamed at him. “Stop,” he said and grabbed McKenna’s arm.

“Why?” asked McKenna.

_Good question._ Bashir hesitated. The desert in front of them looked empty.

“What is it Doctor?”

“I thought… I thought I saw movement. Up ahead in the distance.” 

McKenna followed his gaze. “Are you sure?”

“No...”

The two men stood together, staring out over the flat. _There! There it is again! _Beside him, McKenna started: he’d seen it too this time_._ A shimmer in the desert, floating above the mirage; barely visible and distorted.

Bashir squinted into the sun and tried to make out a shape.

_What is that?_

His heart thumped faster. Whatever it was, it was getting closer.

Twenty meters in front of them, the crust of the salt flat depressed slightly.

_A footprint! Someone’s there! _

“It’s a personal cloak!” he shouted.

Before either man could react, a Cardassian woman dressed all in black decloaked out of the midday sun. She drew a viper disruptor and advanced, fast, toward them.

McKenna went for his phaser.

“No!” yelled Bashir. “Stop! Stand still!”

A shot rang out. The Lieutenant froze, paralysed; his eyes begging for help, his mouth open in an agonised, silent scream. But there was nothing the doctor could do. Viper bolts buried deep inside their targets before igniting. They killed in seconds.

All he could do was watch as McKenna was burnt and blistered alive.

The body hit the ground.

Breathless, Bashir stumbled back - straight into the hold of another Cardassian woman lying in wait behind him. _Shit! _He began to panic._ Shit, shit, shit._ It was an ambush. Two against one. He was outnumbered and outgunned.

“Eneril! Get his combadge!”

_No__._ He struggled and kicked. _Let them take it and you’re as good as dead_. A hard blow to the head sent him reeling sideways. _Fight back_. _Come on Julian! _His attacker grabbed at his chest; at the badge._ Fight._

“Agh!” With a cry, he lashed out, knocking his attacker’s arm. Sisko’s combadge flew from her grasping hand and landed on the ground a few meters away. Wriggling free, he scrambled after it.

Too late. His attacker fell on top of him. She efficiently immobilised her prey, pinning him down with force. Bashir gasped as numbness spread along his legs. _Fight back! Do something! Anything! Come on Julian: you’ll die if you don’t!_

The combadge lay in the salt on the edge of his reach. He stretched for it. _Almost…almost… _

“Stop him!”

_Just a bit more…_

“Eneril!”

_Got__ it. _His fingertips contacted the metal and the comm-line clicked open.

“Under attack!” he shouted. “Repeat: under attack. Require immedi- argh!”

The world blurred. Pain seared across his scalp as he was dragged violently back by the hair. _Christ, the pain!_ He cried out again as the Cardassian pulled him all the way up onto his feet. She yanked his head back.

A knife flashed. Half a second later and a blade was at his throat, hovering a fraction of an inch above the skin.

Bashir went still_._

In front of him, the Cardassian woman dressed all in black stepped over what remained of McKenna’s body. Walking across to where Sisko’s combadge lay in the salt, she lifted her foot. “Beg,” she said.

“Please,” he said. “Don’t.”

She half-smiled. “Good,” she said and stamped down, crushing the badge to pieces.


	7. Friends And Lovers

“Are there others in your landing party?”

Bashir kept _very_ still. “No.”

The knife pulled closer.

_Fuck._ He fought for calm, fought to slow his breath. “I am telling you the truth.”

The Cardassian dressed all in black sheathed her disruptor. “You will tell me other things, Human and you will tell me them quickly. What rank do you hold? What is your mission on Cardassia?”

“I’m a doctor. I’m not on any mission.”

She sighed. “Go ahead Eneril.”

“Agh!” Bashir cried out as the Cardassian behind him began to slowly scrape the knife across his neck, drawing a thin trickle of blood. “Stop – agch, stop.”

“Shush,” whispered Eneril. “Shush… don’t fret, pretty plaything.”

“I – I’m a doctor. I’m - ”

“_Shush..._” Her tongue lapped cold at his neck, licking up the blood. “Awww… don’t shudder. Don’t pull away. Answer my sister Rhegan’s questions or I will _use_ you for _all sorts_ of fun.”

“What vessel did you beam from?”

“The Rio Grande. It’s a shuttlecraft.”

“You are lying,” said Rhegan. “A shuttlecraft would not pass through the missile field undetected. Only a starship with a cloaking device could do that.”

Eneril’s tail whipped. In a heartbeat, it looped around Bashir’s wrists, binding them in a tight knot. Her hand wandered under his shirt. “Oh, the things I’m going to do to you plaything...”

He gritted his teeth as she started to grope.

“What orders have you been given?” demanded Rhegan.

“I have no… no orders.”

“What is your mission on Cardassia?”

“No mission…“

She sighed. “This is pointless. Alright Eneril – do what you want with him then cut his throat.”

“Garak!”

The knife stopped; the edge of the blade resting motionless on his skin.

“What did you say?”

“Garak,” he repeated, praying the name-drop would keep him alive. “I’m here to see Garak. He’s my friend.”

Rhegan looked him, slowly, up and down. She paused. “How close a ‘_friend_’?”

“Very close.”

“You don’t say...”

“He’d be angry if I was killed.”

“Garak _cares _about your wellbeing?”

“Yes.”

Eneril began to grasp and grope again. “I bet he does plaything. You’re his type.”

“Stop. Keep him alive.”

“Rhegan -“

“Alive, he’s useful to us. He’s leverage.”

She scoffed. “Garak is no sentimental fool! He will not trade Tain’s archive for the life of this… this _Human_.”

“He might. Remember Parmak?”

_Tain’s__ archive! Parmak! Uh-oh._ Bashir swallowed. _That sounds as if they know Garak personally... as if they have a history…_

Rhegan took a step closer to him. “I wonder,” she said. “There were always rumours…”

_Stay silent. Say nothing._

“We have to be sure,” she continued. “Let’s take the Human back to the palace and present him to Garak. Let’s see how our dear adopted Father reacts.” She reached forward. Held still, Bashir could do nothing as she began to unbutton his shirt.

“What are you doing?” asked Eneril.

“If the rumours are true, increasing our chances of getting a response...”

***

Outside The Star Chamber of the Imperial Palace at Cair Daun, Garak waited for an audience with the Castellan. As he paced back and forth across the floor, his worry grew. Everything he’d seen in Kotan’s court so far concerned him.

First there was Councillor La’anah; Kotan’s chief advisor and head of staff. She was unusually obstructive; unusually determined to keep Garak away from her master. News of the outside world, it seemed, was not welcomed here.

The servants too had been uncooperative. He’d had to bully and bribe his way through the palace door. He’d recognised no one. The entire staff had been changed since his time in office. The chambermaids, the footmen, the guards; everyone was new. And then - there was the artwork. After his rise to power, Kotan had taken it upon himself to redecorate the chamber. A host of paintings, maps and tapestries now covered the walls.

Garak studied them. He frowned. Every one showed the world as it was a thousand years ago; Cardassia at the height of the Hebitian Age. Peaceful. Prosperous. Golden._ A time before the Great Famine. Before the Three Hundred Years War and the Rule of The Madmen…_

_‘See others but do not allow yourself to be seen. Hear others but do not allow yourself to be heard. Know others but do not allow yourself to be known._’ It was an old saying; a proverb he’d learnt from Mila before he’d even begun to crawl.

_A ruler should be an enigma; as unknowable and unreadable as his commandments are clear. _

The room’s décor revealed far, far too much about the man who was now Castellan. It showed Kotan’s ambitions, his preferences and his dreams. It made him easier to pander to; easier to manipulate…

“Move!” A shout from outside echoed around the room. A moment later and Eneril and Rhegan entered, half dragging a prisoner in between them.

_It’s another anarchist no doubt. _The Daughters had a gift for catching dissidents._ Or a nonconforming defector trying to bolt to the border or – _

_The__ Doctor_. Garak froze. _He’s here!_ _He came back!_ _He kept his promise to return!_

“This Human says you’re his ‘friend’.”

_Ah. _

Garak kept his expression neutral. Rhegan’s tone was insinuating to say the least! And he could hardly miss Bashir’s unbuttoned shirt… his exposed chest and collarbone… the dried blood on his neck…

He could sense the Daughters watching him; dissecting his reactions; waiting for any sign of weakness. _Time for a charade. Time for a performance._

“Doctor Bashir!” he said. “What a pleasant surprise. It’s been years. How are you?”

Bashir glanced at The Daughters. “Um… alright now, I think.”

“And how is your wife?”

“My what?”

Garak smiled, ever pleasantly. “How is your wife? How’s Ezri?” _Come on Doctor, play along. You’re a friendly acquaintance from the past. My old physician and nothing more..._

“She’s well,” he said. “Thank you for asking.”

“I am glad. I always found her to be such a delightful woman. Promoted to Captain of _The Emmett Till_ now I understand?”

“That’s right.”

“A fine ship. I assume Starfleet posted the two of you together?”

“I’m her CMO.”

“How lovely. And the marriage is a fruitful one? You have children?”

“Um, yes,” he said, “five.”

“Five!”

“Er… yes…”

A mischievous question popped into Garak’s head. “What are their names?” he asked.

“Wendy, Peter, John, Michael and Tinkerbell.”

“Such a blessing. You must be a proud father. They must make you very happy.”

“Yes,” said Bashir softly. “Yes, they do. Very happy.” He looked at the ground. “I can’t imagine how lonely my life would be without them.”

“Enough of this chatter,” interjected Rhegan. “Garak – if he is simply an old acquaintance, why do you hesitate? The Human is Starfleet. He is trespassing on our world. Interrogate him!”

“Or let me do it,” said Eneril, “if you lack the spittle.”

“My dears, you are too hasty. The Doctor here is a civilised man. He is sensible. Whatever you want to know, all you have to do is ask…”

All eyes fixed on Bashir. “Our ship docked at Deep Space Nine for repairs…” he began.

Inwardly, Garak smiled_. He’s lying. So naturally; so beautifully. My Doctor._

“We were going to be stuck there for a few weeks, so I asked Ezri for permission to take a shuttle and cross the border.”

“Why?” said Rhegan.

“I’ve developed a vaccine for Potemkin’s Disease.”

_Oh._ Garak’s heart sank. _That part sounds genuine._ _I thought he’d come back to be with me. I thought he’d kept his promise. I thought - _

“It’s a relatively rare but deadly condition,” continued Bashir. “Hundreds of Cardassians suffer from it. I wanted to share the cure I’ve found with your scientists.”

“That’s why you’re here,” said Garak flatly.

“That’s why.”

_No other reason? No one in particular you wanted to see? _He cleared his throat. “Well Doctor, I’m sure our health organisations would welcome any help – “

“Aikkkk!” With a scream of frustration, Eneril kicked the leg of the gelat table. “The Human is _not_ usable,” she sulked as Rhegan tried to hush her. “He is not his lover. We have wasted our time.” With a final kick of the table, she stormed out of the room.

Rhegan however remained. Her eyes narrowed. “Garak,” she said, “has it occurred to you that the vaccine story could be a cover. The Human might have an ulterior mission. He might be a spy.”

“Julian Bashir, secret agent!” Garak laughed. “Just look at him Rhegan! The idea is ridiculous.”

“How did he get through the missile field? Why wasn’t his shuttle destroyed?”

“Clearly someone has been incompetent.” He turned on her. “I seem to recall leaving you in charge of our inter-solar defences.”

She hissed. “You cannot expect me to monitor every operator and every power fluctuation - ”

“I _expect_ you to do your duty. Go check the system, find the scanning operator responsible for the blunder and execute them. Publicly.”

“Garak -”

“Be silent Doctor.” The Son of Tain slithered up inside of him; cold and primeval. “See to it Rhegan. She glowered at him. “**Now**.”

Dismissed and humiliated; put firmly back in her place, Rhegan turned and left. The door closed behind her with a heavy slam.

“The _Daughters_ of _Garak!!!_” cried Bashir.

“Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“It’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever heard! They’re psychotic! They’re cold blooded killers! They’re -”

“They are Cardassian. They know how to survive.”

“You can’t possibly trust them!”

“I don’t trust _anyone_ Doctor.”

He paused. “Not anyone?”

“**No**.”

“Don’t lie Garak,” said Bashir softly. “Not to me.”

Silence fell. Both men waited for the other to speak; for the other one to start the conversation. The conversation. The one that had gone unspoken for so long. The one they both knew they should have had years ago, right at the beginning.

The seconds echoed by.

Garak coughed and, like he always did when they found themselves stuck in a silence, forced an air of easy nonchalance. “The Castellan will be here shortly. I’ll introduce you. You can tell him all about your vaccine.”

“My vaccine?”

“Yes. Your wonder cure for Potemkin’s Disease.”

The Doctor’s puzzled expression dissolved into a still boyish smile. “Oh, my dear Garak,” he said. Moving toward the Cardassian, he placed his hand gently on his shoulder. “There’s no vaccine. There’s no such thing as Potemkin’s Disease. I made it all up.”

“You… you did?”

“Yes.”

“You _lied_?” said Garak, scandalised.

Bashir rolled his eyes.

“You, an upstanding member of Federation society. You _lied _to official representatives of the Cardassian state!” He shook his head. “Why; I am lost for words Doctor. Truly, I am.”

“I know,” said Bashir, drawing closer. “What is the galaxy coming to?”

“What indeed...”

They kissed; quietly, privately – a small moment of authenticity in lives that had, on the whole, allowed for none. They were together. They were lovers. It was a secret that belonged to them alone; a piece of gold to be hidden deep within. The taste of Bashir’s lips lingered on Garak’s as he gently pulled away.

“You came back to Cardassia,” he said.

The Doctor looked at the ground.

“You kept your promise. I always knew you would.”

“Garak - “

“I have missed you.”

“Please. Please listen. There’s something I need to tell - ”

The great door of the Star Chamber yawned open. Both men moved quickly away from one another as Castellan Kotan entered the antechamber, his face entirely covered by The Obsidian Mask.

Garak shivered. His mouth grew dry. For seven long years he’d lived inside that wretched mask, forbidden even in his sleep to take it off.

The Obsidian Mask was a symbol of sovereignty; a sign of the Castellan’s divine right to rule. It was featureless, heavy and black. The mask hid all emotion and all expression. It transformed its wearer from a feeling, living being into a cold, impersonal god.

Only Kotan’s eyes and mouth remained visible. Garak hesitated. The mask was doing what it was designed to do and making the Castellan hard to read. _How will he react? How far can I push this? _

_Is he a threat? _

He’d known the man well before his election to the Red Throne. Kotan was devoted to non-violence, almost as much as he was to the Hebitian Gods. He believed in an independent Cardassia. He was kind.

But being the Castellan changed a person; for good and for ill. How could it not? Eleven billion people lived and suffered and died according to your unquestionable commands.

The power was suffocating; the responsibility absolute. Garak knew from experience. Being the Castellan sharpened the edges of your mind; widened any cracks in your sanity…

“My Lord Garak,” said Kotan. “Councillor La’anah tells me that you refuse to leave without an audience. She also tells me you are disrespectful; stubborn; irredeemable; _deeply_ profane and single-handedly capable of destroying two thousand years of courtly etiquette.”

Garak bowed. “The Councillor is a remarkably perceptive judge of character your Grace.”

Through the gap in the mask, Kotan’s lips curled into the trace of a smile. His eyes flashed with warmth. Garak’s spirits rose. _He still in there. He’ll still listen to me._

La’anah stepped out from behind the Castellan. “Aliens are not permitted in the Imperial Palace,” she said, scowling at Bashir. “The Human must leave at once.”

Kotan ignored her and stretched out his hand. “Doctor Bashir isn’t it? We met a few years ago; in the hospital after the East Torr Temple Disaster.”

“We did. It is good of His Grace to remember me.”

“Castellan,” said Garak, “I apologise for circumventing protocol. But I have to speak to you.” He paused. “Do you know that the harvest has failed?”

“I do.”

“And the rumours of famine in the North; are they true?”

“Yes,” said Kotan. “I’m afraid they are.”

Garak’s heart sank._ It’s begun then. The planet has started to die. _“Your Grace,” he said, “we need to buy time; try to prepare as best we can before winter. Bring in rationing - now. And send trade envoys to the Ferengis, to the Romulans; anyone with grain to sell who might risk breaking the Federation’s embargo.”

La’anah scoffed. “There is no need for such… such an overreaction.”

“An _overreaction_?”

“The shortages in the north are a localised problem. They are being dealt with.”

“Dealt with _how_ exactly?”

“I’ve ordered the food storehouses opened,” said Kotan. “We’ve emptied the emergency seven year reserves.”

“You’ve _emptied_ the reserves?” Garak’s alarm grew. “All of them?”

“No one on the Northern Continent will go hungry under my rule,” continued Kotan serenely. “I will not repeat the mistakes of Castellans of the past. Because we are distributing the reserves now, each and every child there will have enough to eat.”

“I see,” said Garak. “And what will they eat next year?”

“Next year?” said Kotan.

“Yes - when the crops fail again.”

“They won’t fail again. The Science Council assure me this is just a one-off bad harvest; a once in a century event.”

“Just a bad harvest! A one-off event! Castellan!” He broke off. Behind Kotan, La’anah looked increasingly uncomfortable, increasingly agitated. A deep, embarrassed shade of blue had begun to spread across her face.

_Kotan doesn’t know!_ he realised._ His advisors haven’t told him about the changes to the bio-sphere, about the decline in vegetation… _

_Why haven’t they told him?_

Garak took a step forward. “Castellan: listen to me. I fear our situation is far worse than you are aware. What’s happening in the Northern cities is only the beginning. There is a report,” he said slowly, “from the Ministry’s Botanical Division. It predicts the extinction of all Cardassia’s plant life within the next ten years.”

Kotan hesitated. “I have seen no such report.”

“Your Councillors have been hiding it from you.”

“That - that,” spluttered La’anah,“ that is slander!”

“They’ve been lying to you Castellan. Softening the truth. Only telling you what they think you want to hear.”

“How dare you!” cried La’anah. “How dare you insult the Council in this manner! Your Grace, I demand Garak be censured. I demand his arrest for sedition!”

“Show me,” said Kotan.

“What?”

“This report, Elim Garak. Show it to me.”

_Ah. _“I don’t have it,” he admitted.

La’anah sneered.

_“But_,” continued Garak, “a young man named Montag Giel does. Give me some time Kotan, let me find him. He ran away when the Order searched his lodgings, but he can’t have gotten far.”

“More lies,” said La’anah. “More treasonous words. Lord Garak is stalling for time and he is doing it _badly_. There is no Montag Giel! There is no… no ecological disaster! There is no report.”

“Castellan I assure you - the report exists.”

“Where is it then?” demanded La’anah. “Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence. Prove your false accusations!”

“I - “

“Show us the report!”

“I can’t,” said Garak.

“I can,” said Bashir.

From behind them, the Doctor stepped forward. He took a battered Cardassian PADD from his pocket and switched it on. The logo of the botanical ministry appeared just above the screen.

“Giel brought it to Earth,” he said, as much to Garak as anyone else. “He brought it to me. This is the real reason why I’m here. I came to warn you, to get you to do something.”

“That’s what you were trying to tell me before.”

“Yes.”

“I see,” whispered Garak. “I thought…” He stopped. ”I see.”

Bashir looked quickly away. “Castellan,” he said, ”Cardassia’s plant life _is_ dying. Everything Garak says is true.”

He handed Kotan the PADD.

“You must act. You need aid, you need grain. Contact the Federation; the Ferengi’s; the Romulans - _anyone_. Ask them for help. Agree to any terms, any price.

“If you don’t… if you hesitate, millions of Cardassians are going to die along with your planet. Unless you do something, now, your people are going to starve to death.”


	8. The Man In The Obsidian Mask

The balcony of the Star Chamber at Cair Daun offered a panoramic view of the landscape and a four thousand foot sheer drop to the salt flats below.

Bashir stood, a little too close to the edge, and watched the twin moons of Letau and Ramachandra rise in the sky. They swept in a double arc; east to west, in and out of one another’s path. Beneath their dance, the crimson sun dipped behind the horizon. 

_Well_, he thought, _at least_ _Section 31 won’t be able to fault my progress…_

He’d been on Cardassia less than half a day and he was already inside the Star Chamber. He was at the heart of the government. He’d found Garak. If Quinn asked for a mission update, she’d have no reason at all to think he was stalling; no reason to suspect he had no intention of trying to depose Kotan.

_As long as I can make it look as if I’m playing along, the augmented children will be safe. They’ll stay hidden… _

“Doctor,” said Garak softly, calling him inside.

As Bashir stepped through the balcony windows, Garak handed him a glass of kanar. _Another?_ His head ached. They’d gotten through nearly an entire bottle in the last hour.

_Surely Kotan’s nearly done…surely…_

On the other side of the room, the Castellan sat in The Red Throne - his face entirely obscured by The Obsidian Mask. Kotan had insisted on reviewing the whole of Giel’s report. The two men had been waiting for some time for him to finish reading; for him to react.

Kotan trembled slightly. His body sagged. Letting Giel’s PADD fall to the ground, he hunched forward and sank his head into his hands in despair.

“Open the borders,” said Garak.

“No…” said Kotan.

“We need aid; we need grain. You have to contact the Federation. You have to get them to lift the sanctions.”

“How? I have nothing to negotiate with. There’s… there’s nothing...”

“What about the Ferengis?” said Bashir. “They might risk breaking Starfleet’s embargo for the right price. Ten million bars of Latinum ought to do it.”

Kotan shook his head. “No, no…”

“My dear Doctor; when analysing politics, _never _forget economics. The Ferengis will not risk angering the Federation and losing the combined trade of so many worlds. Their market is worth fifty times the value of ours.”

“Oh. Right.”

Garak paused a moment. “Well look,” he said brightly, “let’s just steal what we need then. Attack a weaker planet Castellan and take their resources.”

Bashir’s mouth opened. “_What_?”

“Bajor is a good option.”

“Garak!”

“A few ion pulses will take out their defence systems without too much trouble…”

“You can’t be serious!”

“After that we can carpet bomb the cities, kill half the population and cripple their society… all whilst leaving most of their countryside untouched and their agriculture intact.”

“**No**,” said Kotan. “Absolutely not.”

“Your Grace -”

The Castellan stood. “Have you learnt nothing, Elim Garak, from the decades of war? From the millions dead? Have you learnt nothing from the Oralian Way and what is written in your scripture?"

To Bashir’s surprise, Garak faltered. “I… I have tried to learn.”

“_Thou shall not kill_,” recited Kotan. “_Thou shall cause no pain to another.”_

_“_So sayeth Oralius?”

He nodded. “So sayeth Oralius. _It is far, far better to suffer evil than to do it_.”

“The Goddess cannot starve,” said Garak. “She cannot die. She has the luxury of being good and a long, bloody history of allowing her followers to be slaughtered.

You are mortal. You are The Castellan. You are responsible for keeping our people alive; whatever the cost to your soul. You cannot flinch from doing the ugly thing; the necessary thing -”

Kotan held up his hand. “My path is the path of peace.” He gestured to the large tapestry that covered one of the chamber walls.

_Yet another scene from the golden Hebitian Age._ Bashir had seen at least a hundred other art works like it since entering the palace.

_“This _is my Cardassia,” said Kotan. “Non-violent. Peaceful. I want to abolish the Order. I want to abolish the army. Militarism has perverted our society for too long. I want equal rights for the orphans. And I want a parliament; power shouldn’t be in the hands of one man!”

Bashir felt his hopes rise.

“I want to reform the legal system. I want to get rid of censorship; get rid of the death penalty. I want to advance our science. We should explore other worlds, not conquer them.”

_He’s everything the Federation could want! The kind of Cardassian leader they’ve been waiting for! He wants peace. He wants change._

_Bloody hell! Maybe my mission isn’t wrong after all. Maybe all I’m doing is helping the Cardassians down a path Kotan would have taken them on anyway… _

He took a step forward. “The Federation was founded on those principles. They form the bedrock of our society.”

“Doctor,” murmured Garak, “what are you doing?”

Bashir ignored him. “Contact San Francisco your Grace. Explain what you want to do, how you are trying to change Cardassia. Say _exactly_ what you’ve just said and ask them for help. I promise you they will; they’ll listen.”

“They’ll lift the sanctions?” asked Kotan.

“Yes,” he nodded. He smiled. “Hell, if you do even half of what you say you want to do, they’ll probably let you join - ”

“**Never**.” The atmosphere grew suddenly cold. “Cardassia will _never_ enter the Federation,” said Kotan. “Not while **I **am Castellan.”

“Yes, of course,” backpedalled Bashir quickly, “I only meant - ”

“We agreed to become part of The Dominion once and look what happened. Under their rule we were little more than cannon fodder; we were slaves. Never again will we give control of our future to another. I will not sign away our sovereignty.”

Kotan’s gaze fell back onto the tapestry.

“We are masters of our own fate Doctor. We must stand alone.”

“On _that_ point Castellan, I couldn’t agree with you more,” said Garak. “But you have to act. You have to do _something.”_

“There has already been too much… too much interference,” said Kotan distractedly. “Yes, too much corruption.” He rubbed his temples. “Native Hebitian thought has started to flourish again. True, natural Cardassian thought. But it’s fragile. So, so fragile....”

He fell silent.

“Castellan?” said Garak after a moment.

“Yes?”

“You were saying?”

Kotan blinked at him. “We need to remain isolated to nurture it’s growth. We need to get back on the path; on the true way.”

He leapt suddenly to his feet.

“Yes!” he cried. “Yes, I can see it all now! It is as written in scripture! It is as the prophecy foretold!”

“Prophecy?” said Bashir. “What prophecy?”

“From The Book Of The Birds,” said Kotan. He began to recite excitedly. “Long ago, at the fall of Arcadia. Ulan Corac looked into hell. He looked into hell and beheld Arik’Vassa, The Devourer, who said, “After the Fire, the grasslands shall become desert and two-thirds of the people will die…

“Hard will be the way and long, out of that unending sacrifice. But if the Hebitians trust in Oralius; if they endure the pitiless storm alone, forsaking all others, then the night shall pass and She will lead them to paradise.”

“You think,” said Garak slowly, “that this is The Great Suffering?”

“It must be! It must be!”

“You believe the end of days has come?”

“It is as written; it is The Way. The dawn is almost upon us! Everlasting salvation is here!”

“After two-thirds of us die,” said Garak.

“We must… we must put our faith in the Goddess,” muttered Kotan. “Yes, yes. I see it now. We must not intervene. We must accept the path She has laid out.”

“Accept it?” said Bashir.

“You are suggesting Castellan,” said Garak carefully, “that we do nothing. That we let our people starve.”

“Starvation, pain, suffering; these are worldly concerns. They are temporary. Whereas paradise…” Kotan grandly stretched out his arms as if he was preaching a sermon. “Paradise is eternal!”

“There’s no future paradise waiting,” said Bashir. “There’s no eternal reward. All there is, is now. People suffering; right here and right now. Why can’t you see that?”

“Do not question me! I am Castellan! Ordained by Oralius herself! I am Castellan! I am Castellan!”

Bashir felt Garak gently touch his arm. “Doctor,” he said quietly, “step back a few paces.”

“I am Castellan! My word is law! I am dedicated to an independent Cardassia; whatever the cost! Nothing could induce me to enter the Federation - or any other alliance for that matter. Nothing! Nothing!”

Kotan broke off. He winced and doubled over, holding his head, overcome by an intense stab of pain.

Bashir frowned. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. You can barely stand and your hands are shaking”

“There!” shouted Kotan. He pointed suddenly up into thin air.

“What? What is it?”

“The Viper’s Eye! I can see the Viper’s Eye!”

Garak moved closer to Bashir. “The Castellan’s councillors were _extremely _keen to keep me away from him. I’m beginning to understand why.”

“Yes...so am I…”

“Doctor, I think perhaps a medical assessment is in order...”

“I think you’re right.” Bashir stepped toward the Castellan with professional authority. “How long have you been having headaches, your Grace?”

Kotan didn’t seem to hear him. 

“Is your vision blurred? Are you sensitive to the light? Your Grace?”

“I saw oceans boiling, mixed with blood,” announced Kotan suddenly. “I saw The Nothing. I saw a shadow blocking out the sun. It was a swarm of locusts. Billions of them. The noise was deafening. O!” he cried. “O, I hear you, Ulac Coran! I hear you! I –.”

Kotan broke off as another blinding headache sent him staggering in pain. He fell back into The Red Throne.

Bashir crouched beside him.

“Do not fear what you are about to suffer,” mumbled Kotan under his breath. “Be faithful unto death and I will give you life”.

“It’s okay. Try to stay calm.”

“The lowest deep devours me. It opens wide.”

Bashir gently lifted Kotan’s wrist to take his heart rate. _Hmm._ _Over 140 beats per minute. Far too fast._ He added it to the list of symptoms. _Headaches. Erratic behaviour. Loss of contact with reality._

Kotan stared past him, looking into the middle distance at someone who wasn’t there.

_Hallucinations too. _Bashir frowned._ Obviously, there’s some form of psychosis. I’ll need to do a proper assessment. I’ll need to review the literature on Cardassian mental illness and -_

“Who _are_ you?”

His patient was looking directly at him, looking unnervingly deep into his eyes. “I’m – I’m Doctor Bashir. Remember?”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

Bashir swallowed. “Your grace, it’s common for Cardassians to develop blocks in their neural cortex during prolonged periods of stress. With your permission, I’d like to take you to an infirmary and run a basilar arterial scan - ”

“No!” He pushed him away. “I am Castellan! I am, I am!"

“Let the Doctor help you Kotan,” said Garak, moving forward. “Please. You’re ranting. You’re not making any sense.”

Kotan burst into manic laughter. 

“You need medical treatment. You need rest.”

“I cannot rest! I will not rest! I must prepare my soul. We must all prepare our souls!

“Listen to me.”

“Prepare! Prepare for Death! Prepare for the second coming of Oralius!”

“Your enemies mustn’t find out you’re unwell. It’ll risk civil war. Cardassia needs a strong ruler. We’ll fall apart without one. Let me advise you; let me guide you. Contact the Federation and open negotiations.”

“No!”

“Castellan,” pleaded Garak.

“I won’t open negotiations! I won’t! I won’t! I won’t! I won’t!”

“Then tell me you’ll do _something_, anything! Say _anything_. _Please_. Lie if you have to, but say _something_. Give me another option. Give me a way out.”

“I am a Prophet of The Goddess!”

“Kotan.”

“Í am The Rapture! I am Arik’ Vassa! Í am The Devourer of Worlds!”

Bashir felt the air sharpen. He saw something flash; something catching the light at the top of Garak’s hand. _It’s the edge of a blade! He’s got a knife concealed in his sleeve lining! _

_Oh_ _don’t. Please don’t._

The Son of Tain was here. He gave Bashir a strange, calculating look; as if the Doctor’s presence was just a bothersome reality to be allowed for; a factor to be coldly considered when it came to planning what action to take next.

“Don’t,” whispered Bashir.

Garak lunged at Kotan.

“No!” he shouted. “Garak! Don’t!”

Kotan gasped. The knife punctured his lung and forced all his breath up his throat at once in an unholy sigh. His eyes widened in shock.

Garak cut deeper. He sliced down the Castellan’s body, splitting open the torso. Giving the knife a final, hard twist, he pulled out and staggered back.

Kotan crumpled at the knees.

_“Christ_.” Bashir rushed to catch him. “It’s alright, it’s alright. Don’t try to speak.” He lowered Kotan to lay on the floor. “Get me a medkit!”

_What do I do? Where do I even start? _The blood was … was everywhere. He’d never seen a casualty sliced open like this before. He’d never imagined Garak could… do this.

“I _asked_ for a medkit!”

One appeared beside him. Working fast, Bashir loaded a hypo-spray and injected Kotan with triple the standard dose of morphine. “Help me apply pressure. We need to stem the bleeding.”

“You can’t save him Doctor.”

“Help me!”

Kotan began to convulse.

“Shit.” Bashir struggled to hold him down. “Stay with me Castellan. Stay with me. Open your eyes. That’s it. Keep them open.” Grabbing a laser cauteriser, he started to seal the chest wound.

The patient stilled.

“No!” he shouted. “No, no.” _Cardiac arrest._ He felt frantically for a pulse. _Nothing._ “I need to do rescue breaths. We need – we need to get the mask off.” His fingers fumbled around the back of Kotan’s head, searching for a clasp.

**Click.** The Obsidian Mask fell open. Bashir threw it aside.

Kotan’s face was ashen; his eyes were lifeless. The Doctor began to administer compressions._ One, two, three, four..._

“He’s gone Doctor,” said Garak.

_…nine, ten, eleven, twelve…_

“There’s nothing you can do. I killed him in a way that made sure you couldn’t save him.”

…s_ixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen…”_

“Come on. Come on.” Bashir pushed down hard and fast on Kotan’s breastbone.

_… twenty four, twenty five, twenty six…_

“Breathe!”

He leant close and administered a rescue breath. Nothing. Another breath. And another. And…

He stopped.

He sat upright.

Kotan was dead. He couldn’t save him.

“I had to,” said Garak. “Cardassian politics doesn’t allow for factions. Alive, he would have been a rival. It would have been civil war.”

“Do I look like I want an explanation Garak?”

_How can I love… **him**?_ Bashir felt numb. _I always knew who he was; what he was capable of doing. I’ve known that, almost from the beginning. And yet… to see him kill like that… the reality of it…_

Garak walked to where The Obsidian Mask lay, waiting, on the marble floor. He knelt and picked it up; holding it away from him at arm’s length; as if it were a live chromosomal grenade or a dangerous, unpredictable animal – a coiling snake that could attack any moment.

His body contorted. Then, with a grimace, he forced himself into the mask, snapping shut the clasp to lock himself in.

The seconds passed.

“Garak?” asked Bashir.

WHAM! The Cardassian slammed his head hard against the floor.

“For God’s sake!”

WHAM! The hard rock of the mask dented the floor. WHAM! WHAM! Garak continued to pound, hitting his head, again and again and again. WHAM!

“Stop!” Bashir moved to help him; to take the mask off.

“No!”

“You’re having a claustrophobic attack,” he said, angry at being pushed away.

“I know that,” spat Garak. “But the mask stays on. It has to. Get me through it.” He grabbed the doctor’s shirt and pulled him down to his level. “I don’t have a choice. Help me. Help me through it.”

“Alright, look at me. Look at me, you bastard. Match my breathing. That’s it. In… Out. In… Out. There’s enough air,” he said as calmly as he could. “The walls aren’t closing in. In… Out. In… Out.”

Garak gradually stopped twisting. Slowly, he settled and stilled.

Bashir relaxed his hold.

“She will never forgive me,” whispered Garak. His expression was almost entirely hidden by the mask but his eyes were watery and red.

“Who won’t?”

“She’s a Hebitian Guide; she idolizes Kotan.”

“Garak, who are you talking about?”

“A weakness I couldn’t afford.”

Bashir hesitated. “I don’t understand - ”

The door opened.

“Apologies for the intrusion your Grace,” said La’anah as she entered the Chamber, “but I need you to sign -”

La’anah froze. Her eyes flicked from Garak to the blood-spattered Bashir to Kotan’s body behind them._ Bloody hell. Now we are in trouble…_

“Councillor,” began Garak.

She screamed.

He moved quickly towards her. “Calm yourself Councillor. Calm yourself.”

“The Castellan! He’s… he’s…”

“He’s dead: yes,” said Garak. “An anarchist came through the balcony windows and killed him.” He paused. “Say it back to me, please.”

“An… an…”

“An anarchist,” he prompted pleasantly.

“An anarchist came in through the window and killed him.”

“Good. Fortunately, I was able to vaporize the assassin with my disruptor before he escaped. Of course, that means there’s no body to identify.”

La’anah swallowed. “I’ll issue a crackdown on all anarchist groups.”

“And?”

“And instruct the Order to get confessions out of the other conspirators.”

“A _very_ sensible decision Councillor.”

Garak abruptly turned his back on her and walked over to The Red Throne. If he showed any reaction at all to Bashir as he passed him by, then it was hidden beneath the mask.

He sat down. “I am assuming power,” he said. “There shall be no division; no dissenting voices. Go gather the rest of the council. Go gather my Daughters. I want to hear them pledge their loyalty.”

La’anah bowed. “As you wish, Castellan.”

“And Councillor…” Garak paused. He looked at Bashir. “Send a message to the Federation, Councillor. Tell them… I want to open negotiations.”


	9. Join Or Die

The Federation Council responded almost immediately to Garak’s message. They were, of course, deeply sorry to hear about the ecological tragedy unfolding on Cardassia; and their representative – one Commander Samantha J Quinn – quickly arrived at Cair Daun to meet with the new Castellan and discuss a programme of aid.

As Bashir stood beside the Red Throne and listened to the negotiations, his sense of unease grew.

_I’m exactly where Section 31 wanted me to be. I’m doing exactly what they wanted me to do. _

He was Garak’s advisor; his confidant; his interpreter - there to explain any nuances of language the universal translator didn’t quite convey. There to provide the Castellan with counsel. There to influence his thinking…

_Am I being used? _

_Is this Romulus and Sloan and Senator Cretak all over again?_

“We need at least 7.2 billion tonnes of grain per year Commander,” said Garak. His expression was hidden behind The Obsidian Mask. “And the same amount again in feed for our livestock.”

“The Federation stands ready to help the Cardassian people in any way we can.”

“We need scientists, botanists, hydroponic chambers; GM crops specifically designed to be harvested quickly – similar to the SuperWheat seeds you gave us after the war. We need emergency loans, lower interest rates.”

“We’ll give you everything you ask for Castellan,” said Quinn. “Food aid; grain shipments; replicator rations – everything.” She paused. “If you join the Federation.”

Garak blinked. “Join the Federation?”

“Yes.”

The atmosphere in the chamber turned ice cold. “_I see_,” he said. “And what, exactly, would _that_ entail?”

“Abolition of your military; abolition of The Order. Adoption of Federation Law and our Charter of Rights. Open borders; open trade. A surveillance outpost on your moon, Ramanchandra… ”

“Ha!”

“… as well as at least two star bases within the bounds of your solar system. Compliance with galactic standards of education,” she continued. “Free passage of Federation starships through Cardassian space -”

“Your ‘starships’, ”spat Garak, “are _warships_. They carry quantum torpedoes; anti-matter weapons! They carry hundreds of armed personnel.”

“These are our terms Castellan,” said Quinn calmly. “It’s up to you whether or not you accept them.” Taking a PADD from her carry bag, she extended it toward him. “I have the full agreement here, if you’d like to review it.”

“We’d be little more than a colony.”

“Not at all. You’d be a valued member world of the Federation.”

Garak’s tongue flickered dangerously across his lips. He motioned Bashir forward to fetch the PADD. “And I take it there’s no room for negotiation on any point?”

Quinn smiled. “None whatsoever.”

“Hm.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, your Grace.”

Bashir lent close to Garak’s ear. “It’s an old earth expression,” he explained quietly in Cardassi, “It means -”

“It means she’s fucking us over,” he said, loudly, in Standard. “Thank you Doctor. But I understand _perfectly _what’s going on.”

“Yes… right…”

Garak became cordial and ever pleasant again. “Tell me Commander,” he said, in the same voice Bashir had heard him use when inquiring at restaurants about the soup of the day; “what happens when a member world no longer wants to be part of the Federation? What happens if it wants to leave?”

“No one’s ever wanted to leave.”

“What - never?”

“No,” said Quinn. She paused. “That should tell you something Castellan...”

“_Oh_, believe me, it does.”

Garak stood.

“Thank you for your generous offer Commander. May I have forty-eight hours to consider it?”

“You can have twenty-four.”

“Twenty-four,” echoed Garak. His mask of polite affability remained firmly in place. “Very well.” He bowed. “It was… a pleasure meeting you.”

***

“Quinn!” called Bashir as he followed the Commander down the palace steps and onto the beginnings of the salt flats. “Wait! Hold up a moment. Don’t beam out yet; I have to speak to you.”

He hurried to catch her up.

“Doctor,” she said. “I must congratulate you. Your mission progress so far has been excellent.”

“Don’t do this.”

She sighed. “Doctor…”

“The Cardassians don’t want to be part of the Federation. You know they don’t. The only reason they’re even considering it is because they’re on their knees. They have no other option.”

“Joining the Federation will be hugely beneficial to Cardassia. Think of the improvements it’ll make to their economy; to their quality of life. Think of the advances they’ll be able to make in their medicine.”

“I understand, I do. And I agree with some of your goals. But this isn’t right. They should be free to pick their own path. They should have a choice.”

“They do have a choice.”

“Join or die?” said Bashir. “That isn’t much of a choice.”

“Let’s skip the indignant ‘the-ends-don’t-justify-the-means’ speech, shall we Doctor? I’ve heard it before. Probably as many times as you’ve given it.”

She stopped walking. 

“Garak has the chance to save the lives of every man, woman, and child on this planet. And all it’ll cost him is their sovereignty.” She squinted into the midday Cardassian sun. “I don’t know about you… but I’d call that a bargain...”

“But what if he says no?”

“What do you mean?”

“He could reject your offer.”

Quinn frowned. This idea had obviously not occurred to her before. “Do you think that’s a possibility?”

“I don’t know,” said Bashir evenly. “It’s Garak. Honestly, he might go either way.”

“Hm,” she said, considering. “See that he doesn’t.” She set off walking again. “See that he accepts the terms, there’s a good chap. It’ll be better for everyone in the long run. For the Cardassians, for you, for the augmented children…”

He swallowed. “We _are_ going to give them _some_ aid though… aren’t we Quinn? I mean, even if they don’t join. Even if there’s no agreement and the sanctions have to stay in place.”

“No of course not. Why would we do that?”

_“Why?”_

“Yes,” she said calmly. “Why?”

“Because millions of innocent Cardassians will starve if we don’t. Because it’s the right thing to do; the _humanitarian_ thing to do. Because cooperation and compassion are what the Federation is all about.”

“Oh… Doctor_, really_…” She gave him an infuriating half-smile. “You can’t still be _that_ naïve…”

***

“Garak: you’re not listening to me,” hissed Rhegan. “I have contacted the Romulans. And the Ferengi. And the Breen. I’ve tried nearly every non-Federation world in the quadrant!”

“Try them again. Try harder.”

“There isn’t any point!”

“Don’t question me Rhegan!”

_Here we go again..._ On the other side of the Star Chamber, Bashir silently poured himself another glass of kanar. The two Cardassians had been arguing for the last fifteen minutes. He knew better than to get involved.

Privately though, he agreed with Rhegan. The situation was desperate…

“Half of Starfleet is sat, blockading the border!” she said. “No one in their right mind would try and get past them! No one is going to help us.”

“They’re must be someone,” said Garak. “Someone you haven’t tried. Someone neutral.”

“There isn’t.”

_There’s the Bajorans,_ whispered a voice in Bashir’s mind. _Ask the Bajorans._ _Ask Kira Nerys._ _Ask the Bajorans_. He took another gulp of kanar to try and make the voice shut up. _Ask the Bajorans_, it insisted.

_Get out of my head_, he thought to the Prophets.

_Ask the Bajorans. _

_I don’t believe in you. I don’t trust you._

_Ask the Bajorans. Ask the Bajorans. Ask the Bajorans_. _Ask the Bajorans_.

_ Fine. _

“You could ask the Bajorans,” he said out loud and immediately regretted it.

Rhegan laughed.

“Doctor,” said Garak, “whilst I appreciate the optimism; we did occupy and enslave the Bajorans for half of the last century. I hardly think they’ll be eager to help us...”

The door banged open.

Eneril entered the chamber with a face like thunder. “We have a problem,” she said and, walking directly to the fixed Viddy Display on the wall, switched it on.

The screen showed an image of the Great Cathedral in Lakat. On its steps, a crowd had gathered. Around two hundred protestors stood in a circle, listening to their leader - a woman with long black hair, speak through an Axon Amplifier.

“It’s the Hebitians,” said Eneril. “They started to congregate about an hour ago. There’s not many of them yet but they’ve highjacked control of the Central Broadcasting System. We can’t shut it down. This is being seen all over Cardassia.”

She turned the volume up.

“The Castellan was murdered,” shouted the woman with the amplifier. “Listen to me, people of Cardassia! Listen to the truth! The Castellan was murdered and we all _know_ who did it.”

Bashir glanced, nervously, at Garak.

“It wasn’t an anarchist,” continued the woman. She had the crowd in the palm of her hand. “And it wasn’t a lone assassin. It was the new Castellan! It was Garak! It was a coup d’état!”

“I’ve pulled her Order file,” said Eneril. “Her name is Kel Lokar. She’s a Guide at one of the temples. No record of political activity. Up until now, that is…”

“We demand democracy! We demand justice! We will not return to the despotic ways of the past! We will not be silent!”

“I’ll go shoot her,” said Rhegan.

“No,” said Garak quickly.

“We can’t let her stand there and get away with saying all that! It’s open dissent. She’s practically _asking_ to be killed.”

“Arrest her. Bring her here. But don’t harm her.”

“Why?”

“Because I say so Rhegan.”

She scowled at him.

“Do it. Go on - both of you. Now.”

The Daughters left. Garak stayed completely still, completely silent - transfixed by the image on the Viddy Screen. _Transfixed by the woman, _realised Bashir. _It’s the woman. She means something to him… _

“You know her, don’t you.”

“Oh Doctor… I’m afraid… I don’t know her at all…”

“Who is she Garak?

“I…”

“Tell me.” 

“I am in exile Doctor,” he said numbly. “Still. After all these years. I can’t speak to her. I can’t tell her who I am. When she was born, Tain was at the height of his power; his spies were _everywhere_. If he’d found out about Kel’s existence… he would have killed her and her mother...”

“Her mother?”

Bashir looked again at the woman on the Viddy Screen; noting the details of her appearance… her long black hair; her familiar expression; her unsettlingly blue eyes…

“She’s the weakness you couldn’t afford,” he whispered. “She’s your _daughter_.”

“Yes.”

“You have a daughter! Garak! That’s… that’s wonderful!”

“Is it?”

“Of course it is! Look at her! Look at what she’s doing! She’s amazing!”

“No!” Garak exploded with anger. Grabbing a kanar glass from the table, he hurled it at the display. The screen shattered. “I was so close,” he raged. “I was _trying_. I wanted to be good. I wanted to be a gardener. I didn’t want _this_. This mask; this - this prison!”

He began to stalk the room, looking over the gilded chamber with contempt.

“Ironic, isn’t it? All this time, I thought I’d thwarted Tain. I thought I, Elim Garak, controlled my own destiny. What a fool I was!

“I have power. I have position. I have an illegitimate child who hates me. I am a murderer. A tyrant. A torturer. The spider at the heart of the web. I am the _mirror image_ of Tain. I will never be free of his shadow. Never. He lives in every part of me…”

“You aren’t your father Garak.”

He let out a hollow laugh. “Aren’t I?”

“No.”

Bashir stepped toward him.

“You are different. Tell her. Talk to her. It isn’t too late.”

“I… I can’t Doctor... I can’t...” He sat down heavily onto the Red Throne, slumped and weary with the universe. “The Castellan isn’t a living, breathing being. They’re a figurehead; a representation of the iron will of Cardassia. They’re not allowed to love anyone. They’re not allowed to have a daughter…”

He paused.

“I’ve never even held her hand.”

“We’ll find a way Garak,” said Bashir gently. “A way for you to have time with Kel. A way out of this… this mess. I don’t know how yet. But I’ll help you.”

He gently touched the Cardassian’s shoulder.

“I’m here and I’ll help you, I promise. But first, we need to deal with Quinn and the Federation. And I think,” he said hesitantly. “I do think we need to try and contact the Bajorans.”

***

Keiko O’Brien sat analysing plant samples at the kitchen table. She loved her garden; she loved being a botanist; she loved working at Kew and exploring the English countryside. And she loved Miles; _most_ of the time. But _this_ week…

… this week the miserable old git was really pissing her off.

O’Brien stood by the back door, zipping up his yellow raincoat. He groaned. He put on his left wellington boot. He groaned again. “These are still damp from yesterday!” Another boot went on. Another groan. “Bloody weather,” he grumbled. “Bloody England.”

“There won’t be any play today, will there dear?” said Keiko cheerily.

“What?” he snapped.

_Sunshine and light_ _Keiko._ _Sunshine and light. Avoid another argument. _“Won’t the pitch be soaked in this weather?”

“Oh…right. Yes. But they have machines nowadays. Gets it all dried out.”

Silence fell.

“Last day, isn’t it?” she said.

“What?”

“Of the cricket Miles! Of the test match! You know, the thing you’ve been going to all week.”

“Right. Um. Yes…”

She sighed. Forty years of marriage had taught her there was no point trying to talk Miles out of a mood. You just had to let him find something to do; something to distract himself.

_Cricket is a new one… but at least it gets him out of the house._

“Would you look at that!” he complained. “It’s started chucking it down - again!”

“Miles,” lilted Keiko, with only the faintest hint of irritation, “I know you’ve been feeling down lately. I know you miss Julian. But I’m sure he’ll be back soon enough. And it’s good he’s visiting his mother. It’ll give them both a chance to deal with the past and -”

“Keiko,” he interrupted.

“Yes?”

O’Brien hesitated.

“What is it?” she said. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Picking up his keys, he moved toward her. “You’re a hell of a woman, you know that?” He kissed her cheek. “I’ll be back tonight.”

***

Miles O’Brien trudged through the rain-sodden streets of London, thoroughly miserable. He was soaking wet; he was cold; his back hurt; his wellington boots had a hole in one of the toes…

And, to make matters worse, he was lying to his wife.

For five days now, he had not been at the Test Match. He had, in fact, been searching the city for Montag Giel. He tried to allay his guilty conscience. _There’s no point worrying Keiko. No point getting her involved in something dangerous…_

_Besides, where would I even begin? What could I tell her? I don’t really know anything other than a.) we’ve lost a Cardassian and b.) Julian has been arrested._

True, there was also the encrypted e-message Bashir had sent over the public sub-ether... _I maybe, perhaps, could have told her about that._ _But that would only have worried her more. __It bloody worried me more…_

**Miles – **

**On a ship to Cardassia. Please find our missing guest. **

**P.S: Thanks.**

**P.P.S: The security services are bugging your house.**

His PADD beeped. Text appeared on the screen. <Turn left here>, it read, <go inside the building>.

_Almost there._

Finally, he was closing in on Giel’s bio-signal. It had taken him days to find a way to search for a Cardassian life sign without alerting Starfleet Intelligence. Even now, he wasn’t a hundred percent sure the scan would run undetected.

O’Brien pushed through the doors of the British Library and followed the e-locator’s directions down a white hallway and into a wood panelled reading room.

_There he is. _

Giel was serenely asleep at one of the desks, his face resting on an open book.

_There the bastard is_.

More books littered the desk and the floor around Giel, stacked one on top of another in tiny, lovingly arranged, alphabetically-ordered towers.

“Wake up.” O’Brien strode over and gave him a harder than necessary shove. “Come on, wake up you bastard.”

The boy’s eyes lazily opened. “Oh, hello Chief,” he said.

“Don’t you ‘hello Chief’ me, you little sod. What the_ hell_ do you think you’re playing at? I’ve been all over London looking for you.”

“They have a copy of every book ever written.”

“What?”

“You can read anything,” said Giel. “There’s more here than on any PADD. And nothing’s censored. Look; I’ve got _China Dream_; _Lord Horror_; _Dead Babies_; the unedited 1962 version of _A Clockwork Orange_ \- ”

“We’re leaving. Come on.”

Giel didn’t move.

“I said come on.”

“Um… in a bit. When I’ve finished _Day Of The Triffids_.”

“**Giel**!”

“Shush,” admonished the old librarian from the main desk, her wrinkled faced set with lines of disapproval. It seemed Giel, the avid reader, could do no wrong; the librarian’s stern look was fixed solely on O’Brien.

He lowered his voice. “It isn’t safe here. You’re going to get yourself arrested. More to the point, you’re going to get me arrested. It’s a miracle no one has reported you already.”

“I’m not leaving the books.”

“Alright, fine.” O’Brien glanced at the main desk. “We’ll get the librarian to register you and get you a library card. But if she doesn’t buy that you’re a Denobulan and starts asking questions then- ”

“A what?” interrupted Giel. “You’ll get me a what?”

“A library card.”

“What’s that?”

“You _know,”_ said O’Brien impatiently.

Giel didn’t.

“If you join the library and get a card you can take books out.”

“But I don’t have any currency.”

“You don’t need currency. You’re only borrowing them. They’re lending you the books.”

He blinked. “Lending?”

“Yes. To read at home. Don’t you have libraries on Cardassia?”

“No, we don’t,” said Giel, grappling with the new concept. “I can… ‘borrow’ them…” His eyes lit up. “I can borrow them! But this, this is the greatest thing I’ve ever heard! This is the best idea in the history of the galaxy!”

He excitedly grabbed _Day of The Triffids_.

“You mean, if I join the library, I don’t have to stay here; I, I can take this book – any of these books – I can take them back home with me, keep them a while, read them anytime, all for free… so long as I bring them back later?”

O’Brien nodded. “Basically – yeah.”

_“How many?”_

**Author's Note:**

> Hi😊 This fic is going to take a while to write. As always - any ideas or anything you'd like to see, do let me know and I'll try and incorporate best I can. In the meantime, if you’d like to read the prequel to this story (In Times Of War) it can be found here - https://archiveofourown.org/works/14461320?view_full_work=true
> 
> Also: in a bizarre 2020 Covid thing, Giel now exists in a mini-script reading thing, done by Siddig and his son Django El Siddig on youtube. If you want to watch it it's at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AqGVUEiRn0E&t. Or google Sid City Curse From The Prophets and you'll find it.


End file.
